Connections in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “Nadine’s really made this place her own. Stylish, yes, but eclectic and comfortable. She looks happy.”

  “The gold dude upstairs and the rock star out on the terrace play in.”

  “They certainly do. I like him—the Oscar, of course, but Jake. I like him.”

  Eve glanced toward the terrace. Through the glass she saw Jake and Mavis, nearly nose to nose as they sang while Jake’s fingers flew over the guitar.

  “Yeah, he works. Sort of speaking of that. Do you know anything about this Rochelle Pickering who’s glued to Crack?”

  Mira’s eyebrows lifted. “A little. Problem?”

  “You tell me.”

  “None I’m aware of. I volunteer at Dochas a few times a year. I met her briefly when we were both there some months back. She struck me as very stable and dedicated. A serious woman.”

  “Yeah, so what’s she doing with Crack?”

  Mira looked over to where Crack and Rochelle swayed to the music on the terrace. “Apparently enjoying herself. It’s a party, Eve. It’s what people do at parties. And here’s Dennis to prove it.”

  Dennis Mira walked toward them with a plate of finger food. He wore a black suit with a crisp white shirt and a striped tie. His tie was crooked, and his gray hair windblown. His eyes, the softest, sweetest green, smiled at Eve.

  Her heart went into meltdown.

  “You have to try one of these.”

  He took something off the plate, held it up to Eve’s lips. She saw what looked like a heap of little chopped-up vegetables, all glossy with something and piled on a thick slice of zucchini. Something she’d have avoided putting anywhere near her mouth, much less in it, at all costs.

  But those soft, sweet green eyes had her opening her mouth, letting him feed it to her.

  “Delicious, isn’t it?”

  She managed an “Mmm” as the meltdown completed.

  She thought if everyone had a Dennis Mira in their lives, she’d be out of work. No one would have another violent thought.

  “Let me get you a plate.”

  “No.” She swallowed, decided her veg quota was complete for a month. “I’m good.” And found herself just a little disappointed when Mira straightened his tie.

  “Such a happy party, isn’t it?” he continued. “So many interesting and diverse people in one space. I always think the same when you and Roarke have a party. It takes interesting people to gather so many of the same together.” He gave her that smile. “You look very pretty. Doesn’t she, Charlie?”

  If Eve had owned a blush, she’d have used it.

  Roarke slipped up beside her—more chitchat—then the four of them wandered out to the terrace. She’d avoided the terrace, because that way lay Trina. But she couldn’t be a coward all evening.

  The music blasted over New York. Eve decided if anyone called a cop over noise violations, they’d find a whole bunch of them busting that reg, including her entire squad, a chunk of EDD—and the commander.

  At the moment, Commander Whitney was dancing with Assistant Prosecuting Attorney Cher Reo. A lot of shoulder shaking and hip rocking was involved. Eve’s partner, Detective Delia Peabody, executed some sort of wild swing and hop in time with her main man and EDD ace McNab.

  Baxter, slick suit, no tie, flirted with the terrifying Trina, which was no problem, as Detective Horndog flirted with any and all females. Reineke and Jenkinson clicked glasses as they joined in on the chorus of whatever girl duet Detective Carmichael and Mavis belted out.

  It seemed Carmichael did indeed have pipes. And Jenkinson’s tie glowed like the moons that covered it.

  Standing spread-legged, Santiago ran his fingers over a keyboard. What came out was definitely music. Who knew? Trueheart, Baxter’s earnest young partner, sat with his girlfriend and Feeney. Eve swore Feeney’s eyes shone—or glowed like Jenkinson’s tie—as he watched the Avenue A drummer bang and crash the drums.

  She spotted Garnet DeWinter. The forensic anthropologist huddled in conversation with the commander’s wife while Morris made his sax wail.

  EDD Callendar rushed out on the terrace, giving a “Woo!” as she dragged a laughing Charles with her into the shaking bodies. Eve supposed dancing skills had once been a job requirement for the former licensed companion. Dr. Louise Dimatto, his wife, hooked an arm through Eve’s.

  “I’d say this house is warmed.”

  “It’s a heated terrace.”

  “No.” On a laugh, Louise lifted her glass. “Housewarming, Dallas. This house is definitely warmed. So, who’s that stunning woman dancing with Crack?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.” Eve shrugged. “Kid shrink.”

  “Really. I love her lip dye. If I tried that color, I’d look like a zombie. Is that— That’s Detective Carmichael singing with Mavis.”

  “Yeah. She has pipes.”

  “I’ll say. Well, since Callendar stole my man, I’m going to steal someone else’s.” She circled a finger in the air. “Feeney,” she decided, and circled the dancers.

  Roarke brought Eve another drink that washed away even the memory of zucchini. When they took the music down to slow and he turned her into his arms, she swayed with him under the swimming slice of moon.

  Yeah, she thought, this house is warmed.

  * * *

  And if, on the drive home, she took out her PPC and did a quick little run on Rochelle Pickering, so what?

  Roarke stretched out his legs in the back of the limo. “What are you up to there, Lieutenant?”

  “Just checking something.”

  He waited only a beat. “Don’t tell me you’re running Rochelle.”

  “Okay.”

  “Eve, Crack’s a big boy. Literally.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Eve,” he said again, and laid a hand on hers. “You should know I’ve already run her.”

  “What? You’re not a cop, and—”

  “And she’s not a suspect. She is, however, the top contender for the head therapist at An Didean.”

  “I thought you had one of those already.”

  “I did. She had a personal issue come up just last week, and is moving to East Washington to be with her son. I’m vetting the position again. Dr. Pickering was already a leading candidate when I went with Dr. Po.”

  “Does she know that?”

  “Unlikely. I can tell you she’s highly qualified, experienced, dedicated, comes strongly recommended. And has no criminal record.”

  “That you found. Okay, okay,” she mumbled after his quiet stare. “If she had one, you’d have found it.” She shrugged with it. “Save me time then.”

  “She’s the only daughter and second child. Three siblings. Her father did time—twice—for assault, for illegals. Her younger brother did time, as a juvenile, for theft, possession—and as an adult for the same. He belonged to the Bangers.”

  “That’s bad business. Their turf’s narrowed, but they’re still bad business.”

  “Most gangs are. He’s been out of prison two years—just—completed rehab and, by all accounts, is clean and no longer affiliated with the Bangers.”

  Eve put that aside for later. Though the Bangers weren’t as big and bad as they’d once been, they didn’t just let go, either.

  “Her father died in a prison incident when she was fifteen,” Roarke continued, “and her mother self-terminated shortly thereafter. From that point—and reading between the lines, to a great extent prior—they were raised by their maternal grandmother. They grew up in the Bowery,” Roarke added. “The roughest part of it.”

  “Banger turf.”

  “Yes. The oldest brother went to trade school, and has his own business—plumbing—in Tribeca. He’s married, has a three-year-old daughter and another child on the way. The youngest is in law school, Columbia, on scholarship. The middle brother’s been gainfully employed at Casa del Sol, Lower West Side, as a cook—a trade he apparently learned in prison—since he got out. He reports to his parole officer, attends reg
ular AA meetings and, with his sister, volunteers at a local shelter twice a month.”

  “The Bangers don’t let go.”

  “The Bangers are in the Bowery. Rochelle lives with her brother in a two-bedroom apartment in the Lower West, well outside their territory. She had a hard and difficult childhood—something you and I know a great deal about. She overcame. It’s hardly a coincidence she devoted her skills to the emotional welfare of children.”

  She knew his tones, his inflections. Knew him.

  “You’re going to hire her.”

  “It strikes me as a happy twist of fate we happened to meet her tonight. I’d already planned to contact her Monday morning to set up an interview. If I’m satisfied after that, and she’s interested, I’ll offer her the position, yes.”

  He shifted, trailed a finger down the shallow dent in her chin. “Unless you give me a solid reason not to.”

  She hissed out a breath. “I can’t. I’m not going to knock her because one of her brothers was an asshole, because her father was another.”

  Maybe it worried her a little. But Roarke had a point. Crack was a big boy.

  2

  To counteract the party, socializing, small talk, and fancy shoes, Eve had a quiet, off-duty Sunday. With no fresh murders landing in her lap, she spent the day sensibly. She slept late, banged Roarke like a hammer, ate crepes, took a three-mile virtual run on the beach, pumped iron until her muscles begged for mercy. To cap it off, she took a session with the master in the dojo, followed it up with a swim and pool sex.

  Then she took a nap with the cat.

  Afterward, she indulged herself with an hour on the shooting range—determined that next time she and Roarke went head-to-head there, she’d crush his fine Irish ass. Following a leisurely dinner by the fire, she snuggled up with that fine Irish ass and a bowl of butter-soaked popcorn to watch a vid where lots of stuff blew up.

  To celebrate the end of a day without Dispatch butting in, she let Roarke bang her like a hammer. Then slept like a baby.

  Refreshed, renewed, and feeling just a little guilty she’d chosen the nap instead of carving through her backlog of paperwork, she headed into Cop Central early on Monday.

  Not early enough to avoid the snapping, snarling traffic or the average driver who lost any moderate skill behind the wheel due to a thin rain whipped by a blasting March wind. Still, she figured the nasty was just the thing to start off a day of cop work.

  Plus, the ferocity of the wind grounded the ad blimps. It made a nice change to inch her way downtown without hearing the blasts about early spring sales and discounts on late winter cruises to wherever the hell.

  Which was it, anyway? Early spring or late winter? Why couldn’t March make up its mind?

  She could be an optimist and go with early spring. It wasn’t snowing or sleeting or shitting out ice. On the other hand, it was still freaking cold in that screaming wind, and those skies could decide to dump out snow anytime now.

  Plus, optimists usually got their faces rubbed in the dirt of disappointment.

  Late winter it was then, she decided as she pulled into her slot in Central’s garage. She headed up, pleased to have a full hour before the change of shifts.

  She found Santiago at his desk in the Homicide bullpen.

  “Catch one?”

  He looked up with tired cop’s eyes. “Yeah. Carmichael’s in the break room getting us some atomic coffee. Street LC picks up a john who wants a BJ. The transaction’s cut short when they move to a doorway off Canal often used for same, and find a DB. John takes off, but the LC does her duty, finds a beat droid.”

  “Who’s the DB?”

  “Low-rent illegals dealer, and one who made considerable use of his own product. The LC recognized him from around the streets, and she’d seen him arguing with a local junkie about an hour before when she came out of the flop she uses next door for more involved services. But she doesn’t know the junkie’s name. Anyway, we got pulled in.”

  He glanced back as Detective Carmichael came out of the break room with two steaming mugs of cop coffee. “Ah yeah, my life for you.” Santiago snagged one, gulped some down. “When we got there, a couple of other LCs got in on it. They’re shooting the shit, and one of them pops up a name. He says he’s pretty sure the first LC means Dobber. Loser type, according to the wit, who moved in—the same damn building as the doorway—a couple months before.”

  Santiago signaled for Carmichael to take over.

  “So we leave the beat droids—we called in another—with the DB and the wit, head in to check out this Dobber. He’s in his flop, flying high on the happy poppers he took off the dealer after he stabbed him in the throat. Asshole’s still got the sticker, LT.”

  “Jabbed at her with it,” Santiago added. “So we add that to the charges even though he fell on his face.”

  “Tripped over his own feet. Blood on the sticker matches the vic. Asshole confessed in under ten in Interview, claiming he had to kill the guy because he was overcharging. It was a matter of principle.”

  “So it’s wrapped.”

  “And tight,” Carmichael agreed. “Mope’s got a sheet as long as your legs. Just got out after doing a nickel for assault. Add all that, he’s in for life this time around.”

  “Good work.”

  “LCs did most of it. You’re in early. Something up?”

  “Paperwork.” Eve started to step back, get to it, then frowned at Santiago. “I thought you played ball, not the…” She wiggled her fingers over imaginary keys.

  “Both. I wanted baseball—practically lived for it. So the ’rents said, No problem, play all you want. As long as you keep your grades up, stay out of trouble, and take a year of piano lessons from your aunt. My aunt’s a pain in the ass, so striking the deal showed I wanted ball. Turned out I liked the music, too, so I stuck with it.”

  “Now you’re a cop.”

  “A base-running, keyboard-smoking cop who got to jam with Avenue freaking A.”

  “And you sing,” she said to Carmichael.

  “I kill when I can get to open mic night. And now I’ve sung duets with Mavis and Jake. Big night, right, partner?”

  Santiago rapped his mug to hers. “Hey, we should start a cop band. Call it The Badge.”

  Eve retreated.

  In her quiet office she programmed coffee from her AutoChef, then settled down at her desk. Because cop work wasn’t only about locking up assholes who killed over happy poppers, she dug into schedules, requisitions, reports, budgets. The budget part required more coffee, but she felt she’d made solid headway before she heard Peabody’s clomping stride heading toward her door.

  “Santiago said you came in early.”

  “Paperwork.”

  “I’m going to finish up the report on the double we closed Friday. Man, I’m glad we wrapped that before Nadine’s party. What a night.”

  Rather than the glittery, boob-hoisting number she’d worn for “what a night,” Peabody now stood in sturdy trousers and a sensible jacket, with her dark hair in the weird little flip she’d taken to wearing rather than all swirled around.

  “I hardly got to talk to you,” Peabody added.

  “You were busy shaking your ass most of the night.”

  “The more you shake your ass, the looser your pants. Plus, fun!”

  Eve’s communicator signaled. She saw Dispatch on the readout. “Fun’s over.”

  * * *

  Within twenty minutes, Eve stood with Peabody over the body crumpled on the second floor landing of a multitenant building. From the looks of it, the building had once been a warehouse, now converted to apartments. Working-class, primarily, and was, in Eve’s estimation, decently maintained and poorly secured.

  Neighbors identified the dead guy as Stuart Adler, apartment 305. With the uniforms keeping those neighbors back, Eve crouched down to confirm ID with her pad.

  “Victim is confirmed as Adler, Stuart, age thirty-eight, of this address. Single. Divorced, no offspri
ng. Got some bumps here for drunk and disorderly, public drunkenness. Two rounds of mandatory rehab, and since it’s not yet nine A.M. and I can smell the booze on him, that didn’t stick.”

  His eyes, pale blue and shot with blood, stared up at her as she examined the body. “Neck’s broken. From the head wound, the blood spatter, it looks like he took a hard fall down the steps. Then add the knife still sticking out of his abdomen.”

  “Stick him,” Peabody suggested, “give him a good push. Down he goes. Except…”

  “Yeah, except. The sticking—with an open pocketknife—came after the fall or there’d be more blood from the gut wound. Not much of a blade, not much of a gut wound.”

  “Gary did it!” somebody shouted from above.

  “What? Are you crazy?”

  At the sounds of a scuffle, Eve straightened. “Stay with the body,” she told Peabody. “See if you can lift any prints off the knife. And bag that apple in the corner.”

  She went up the stairs, where a half dozen people were shouting at each other.

  “Knock it off!” She jabbed a warning finger toward a woman with wild eyes and a helmet of hair that even the bluster of March wind wouldn’t move. “Who’s Gary?”

  “I’m Gary.” The man who raised his hand had a small beard, a shock of brown hair tipped gold at the ends. He wore a tweed jacket with a loosened tie and his shirt unbuttoned at the neck. “Gary Phizer. 304. Across the hall from … from Stuart. I called the police. I called them. I was leaving for school—I’m a teacher—and I saw him. I ran down to him, but I could see…”

  “You were fighting last night!” Helmet Hair glared at Gary. “You threatened to break his neck.”

  “I threatened to break his screen, Mildred, if he didn’t turn down the volume. He was drunk, again,” he said to Eve. “And he had some vid on—a lot of shouting, crashing, whatever. I live right across the hall. It was two in the damn morning when we got into it. I’d already asked him twice. He’d turn it down, then turn it up again. I was just trying to get some sleep.”