Connections in Death

by J. D. Robb

  She pushed up, paced as she rolled, rolled, rolled it around.

  Then she broke her own rule—really, it would only take a minute—and tagged Mira on her personal ’link.

  “Eve.”

  She led with “I’m sorry. This isn’t personal, but I figured if you were in a session or a consult you wouldn’t answer.”

  “I’m actually about to leave for the day—early. Dentist appointment. Routine, she says, hopefully, as always.”

  Instinctively, Eve ran her tongue over her own teeth. “Yeah, good luck. It’s about the gang-related murders. I sent you the reports, and realize you probably haven’t read them yet.”

  “I did glance at them. You hadn’t flagged them for me as urgent, but after meeting Rochelle, I wanted to see what I could do. Why don’t I come to you? I have a little time before I have to leave for the appointment.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  “It’ll take my mind off the dentist chair. Five minutes.”

  Eve used it to make herself a kind of chart, working the connections, victims, suspects, players, witnesses.

  A lot of links there, she decided, and added the chart to her board.

  She turned at the sound of Mira’s heels.

  Maybe Peabody had it right about spring, she mused. Mira had certainly dressed for it, going for sunny yellow in one of her sleek suits. And the heels made her think of Peabody’s meadow with flowers blooming from toe to spike. She carried a light topcoat in pale, pale blue over her arm.

  “Thanks for the time.”

  “It’s not a problem.” Mira laid the coat on the visitor’s chair. “I liked Rochelle quite a bit. I’m so sorry she’s going through this.”

  As she spoke, she walked to the board, studied it. “Have you told her he was Detective Strong’s CI?”

  “Not yet. If that was the motive, or part of the motive, I’d like to keep it quiet for now.”

  “Do you think he told someone, other than his sponsor?”

  “I think the chances are low. I still have to give his journal a thorough read, but we didn’t find any mentions there. If he didn’t write it in his personal journal, didn’t tell his sister, it’s hard to see him talking about it. That doesn’t mean somebody didn’t find out, or suspect.”

  Mira’s eyes, softly blue, studied Eve’s chart. “If they did, that sort of betrayal would almost certainly equal a death sentence.”

  “Who planned it, ordered it, and picked the three to carry it out? Because I’m not buying Duff, who ends up beaten to death only hours later. She had no standing in the gang, no pull. Add in she was a serious addict. So it’s hard for me to buy she’d not only have access to the illegals, but would leave them behind to try to cover up the murder. But…”

  Eve circled. “She was pissed at him. He’d recently given her the heave. Get lost or I turn you in. You can bet she whined about that. To the other Banger Bitches, to this guy.” Eve tapped Jorgenson’s ID shot. “Since she was trading him sex for flop space.”

  “Which would give her motivation to help exact punishment on Pickering,” Mira agreed. “Murder seems extreme if she or the others didn’t know about his CI status.”

  Eve tapped again—Slice and Bolt. “These two. Jones is currently top dog, and he and Pickering went back. Similar enough backgrounds, and what might have been a genuine friendship at one time. He offered Pickering second in command if he came back, and that tells me he valued Pickering.”

  “Second in command?” Mira eased a hip on Eve’s desk, nodded. “That’s more than friendship, I agree. Yes, I’d say he valued Pickering, trusted and respected him, to make such an offer.”

  “Then we come back to the question mark. If he subsequently learned Pickering was a CI, he’d be honor bound to take him out. Would he go to the more elaborate OD cover-up—which was poorly executed—instead of having the traitor hauled in, then taken out and messed up, killed?”

  “To carry out the execution this way, because of their history. It’s possible. Kill, humiliate, attempt to set a scene that makes the victim appear to have lied and cheated. This punishes him, and his family.”

  Eve pointed, nodded. “That’s right, and there’s some strategy there. Still, smarter to do it somewhere else, leave the body with some illegals on him as well as in him.

  “Jones doesn’t strike me as stupid,” Eve added. “He’s a killer. It’s right there in his eyes.”

  “It is, isn’t it?” Mira murmured. “You can’t always see it, but just from this? He takes pride in what he is.”

  “You’re not wrong. But he’s survived this long because he’s not altogether stupid. Hell, he’s making a decent living in real estate with his partners—and I’m going to have a talk with them later. That says backup plan. When his days as top dog are over, he’s got the cushion.”

  Mira angled her head, studied Eve now. “At the base of it, you don’t believe he ordered a hit on Pickering.”

  “It’d be easier if I did,” Eve admitted. “He’s a killer who takes pride in it, and I want to slap him in a cage and lock the door. But, I don’t. Every time I put it together, it doesn’t fit.”

  “Why?”

  “First, right off the top? His reaction when I told him about Pickering was outrage. Some shock tossed in, but outrage. He’s a good liar, no question, but I buy the outrage.”

  “Because someone went over his head and took a former Banger out. Someone disrespected the chain of command.”

  “That’s it.” Eve banged a fist on the side of her thigh. “Exactly it. One of my detectives goes over my head, I’m going to kick some ass. And that’s what I saw. The idea that maybe someone had. And that would put him out of the hit on Duff, because why? Plus, the timing’s too close. She’s dead because she served her purpose, and had a big, whiny mouth on top of it.”

  “The other one? Jorgenson. You’re leaning toward him.”

  “He’s in the running, and right now leading the pack. He’s got a hot head, and made a point of pushing at Jones while we were there. And he’s got a long sheet, a lot of violence on it.”

  She studied his ID shot again. “Still, I need to do runs and get a feel for other lieutenants or up-and-comers. I need to take a look at the case files, see if I can find a close connection in the gang for the ones Strong put away using her CI. And one more.”

  Eve stopped, checked the time. “I’m holding you up.”

  “I’ve got a couple more. Finish it out.”

  “Okay, I get taking Duff out, and quick. But it was overkill. They beat the shit out of her, raped the shit out of her. Pickering they tranq, then pump full of junk. He probably never felt anything after that first grab and stick.”

  “That could come down to basic misogyny,” Mira pointed out. “The former gang member—male—who fought the fight, who did time, wore the colors, is given an easy death. The female who outlived her usefulness, which was primarily sex—and there are others to provide that—is brutalized. Just another whore.”

  Mira crossed her very fine legs at the ankles. “So, from my scan of your reports, the look of your board, and this conversation, my initial profile would be a true believer. The gang first, last, always. And one with ambition and some clout. Enough to have three men—or two if he joined them—and Duff do what he told them. Enough to have access to the illegals used and planted. He’s impulsive. More thought, more careful thought, would have plugged the obvious holes. But Pickering had to be punished, humiliated, the reputation and trust he’d fought to earn back shattered.

  “If he’s not top dog with every intention of staying there, he intends to be. If not Jones, someone who had the additional motive of killing one of Jones’s old friends.”

  “And adding some turmoil.”

  “Yes, particularly with the second killing—that brutality, the location. Stir up trouble, help put the trouble out—like an arsonist who joins in the fire line.”

  “Gain more cred.”

  “Yes. Ambitious, impulsive, br
utal, and loyal above all to the gang—as he sees it. If, again, it’s not Jones, it’s someone who’s already working to depose him. Women are to be used however he chooses to use them. He may have watched his father or another male authority figure abuse and/or humiliate his mother. If she tolerated it, she’s a whore. If she didn’t, she’s a bitch.”

  “Peabody’s digging into a report right now. Jorgenson went after his mother, physically. His sister—military—stopped him.”

  Mira’s eyebrows lifted. “That’s certainly interesting, and certainly fits. Attacking his mother, being stopped by his sister? It’s likely he has a very skewed view of women.”

  With obvious reluctance, Mira pushed off the desk. “I’m going to take a closer look at your reports after I’m done at the—absolutely routine—dentist.” She picked up her coat. “I’ll write up a more cohesive profile once I have.”

  “Thanks. And the good luck thing again.”

  “I’ll take it. Eve, when you speak to Rochelle, please give her my sympathy. And let her know, though she probably has her own contacts, if she wants the names of grief counselors, I can help there.”

  “I will.”

  As Mira clicked away on her garden shoes, Eve turned back to her board.

  She spent the next hour going over the data Peabody sent her on Jorgenson, picking through Strong’s case files for connections still in the gang to anyone she busted. And after a quick tag, had Strong send her the best guess on the Banger chain of command.

  With that, she started runs, played with probabilities.

  Glancing over when her comp signaled an incoming, she seized on Harvo’s report.

  “All hail the fucking queen!”

  She hit her ’link, made the tags while she worked out the steps in her head. Then, swinging on her coat, headed out to the bullpen.

  “Officers Carmichael, Shelby, suit up. We’re moving, Peabody. Harvo came through.”

  “We got one?”

  “Barry Aimes, aka Fist. Reo’s getting the warrant. Dug down into his juvenile for the DNA match on one of the hairs Morris found on Duff. No luck on a second sample. Aimes is only seventeen. Got booted from school for fighting, did a little short time in kid jail for same. And he left his hair on Duff.”

  She showed Peabody the image on her ’link screen. “Wears it long, and it’s currently dyed red. He’s got a job listed—stocking shelves at a mini—and a residence. We’ll hit the mini first.”

  “Seventeen.” Peabody shoved her arms in her coat. “And he’s already killed twice.”

  “Bad boy,” Eve said, looking forward to sweating his co-killers’ names out of him once she had him in the box. “Here’s how we’re going to roll it out.”

  11

  Eve didn’t care about double-parking on police business, but in this case, she had a purpose to pissing off drivers when she slid next to the beater at the curb in front of the mini-mart.

  If Aimes managed to get by her out the front, she’d pursue on foot while Peabody jumped back in the car to cut him off.

  If he tried the back, she had her two uniforms waiting.

  A big guy at six-three and two-sixty, she’d reminded her takedown team—and one who likely carried sharps and couldn’t be expected to go quietly.

  With Peabody, she walked into the mini, a quick shop approximately the size of her closet. Its wares included snack packs of junk food, some canned goods, candy, condoms, a section of cheap makeup and hair dye. She imagined the lottery tickets and black-market tobacco products sold illegally under the table kept the place afloat.

  She didn’t see Aimes—and it would’ve been impossible to miss him in a space that size with the only occupants one middle-aged male wearing a do-rag and a sour expression behind the counter, and a lone female with an infant in a sling, a dented basket in her hand.

  Eve approached the counter with its short stock of candy bars inside a locked case.

  “Help ya?”

  “We’re looking for Barry Aimes.”

  “Yeah?” His sour expression soured further. “Let me know when you find his lazy punk ass so I can fire it. He hasn’t been in for two days running.”

  Too busy killing people, Eve thought. “Is that usual?”

  “It’s not unusual, right? You cops?”

  Eve took out her badge. “You don’t seem surprised cops would be looking for your employee.”

  “Employees show up for work, right? What he is, is the lazy punk-ass nephew of my woman’s cousin, so she nags me shitless to give him a job. What he do this time?”

  “Do you know where he might be?”

  “Hell.” After shoving at his do-rag, the man let out a long-suffering sigh. “Probably out getting high or at home, where he mooches off his old lady—who works for a living—sleeping off his last high. You find him, you tell him he’s done here. Last time he showed up I come up sixty short. He’s done, and if the Banger trash he runs with don’t like it, screw ’em.”

  “Do the Bangers extort money from you for their questionable protection?”

  “This place ain’t much, but it’s my ain’t much. I got nothing to say about that. But that don’t mean I have to put up with Barry’s lazy punk ass anymore.”

  “All right. Could I have your name?”

  “Ain’t you got one of your own?” He actually grinned at his own humor. “Hoobie. Kent Hoobie.”

  “Mr. Hoobie, if he comes in, or you see him, I’d appreciate you not mentioning this visit—and contacting me.”

  When she passed him a card, Hoobie started to stuff it in his pocket, then he stopped, eyes narrowed. “Homicide? Jumping Jesus, did that stupid kid kill somebody?”

  “We need to speak with him” was all Eve said.

  Outside, she contacted her uniforms, told them to come around. “Peabody, did you dig up the exact location of the apartment?”

  “Fifth floor, east side. My map shows an alley between the building and the one directly east.”

  “Okay. Suspect hasn’t come into work the last two days,” she told the uniforms. “So here’s how we roll on the residence.”

  A few blocks later, Eve double-parked again. They’d moved beyond Banger turf, into the sort of borderland between the badlands and the solid middle class.

  Working-class building, she judged, with a single entrance cam that might even work. She mastered in while the uniforms took the alley.

  Inside the lobby with its dull beige walls stood two elevators with dull green doors.

  She took the stairs.

  “Five flights,” Peabody grumbled. “Loose pants. His mother works as a sales clerk at Trendy, a chain store in the Sky Mall. Long commute.”

  “Rent’s cheaper here.”

  She could hear music and muffled voices from screen shows, some baby sending out wild screams as if being eaten by wolves. And a lot of quiet. Working class, she thought again. Too early for most to be home.

  “It’s 516,” Peabody said as, breathing a little heavy, she reached the fifth floor.

  Eve approached, noted the additional lock and another cam that might actually work.

  She rapped the side of her fist on the door, listened hard for any sound, any movement. Heard nothing. Pounded harder.

  The door just down the hall opened. A girl of about fourteen, wearing a teenager’s bored disgust, poked her head out. “What’s the what, duet? Nobody’s in there, okay? Some people are trying to do their homework.”

  “We’re looking for Barry Aimes. Have you seen him?”

  The girl, a lot of wavy brown hair with fading blue streaks, eased out a little more. “No. Why would I want to? If he was in there, he’d have the music or the screen on. Probably both, so I have to put on my headphones to get my homework done. So he’s not in there. Maybe at work. Probably not, but maybe.”

  “When’s the last time you saw him, or heard him?”

  “Awhile, I guess. My mom thinks he moved out. Hope so. I’m never supposed to open the door to him, even if she�
�s home. She says he’s trouble. What do you want him for anyway?”

  Eve held up her badge. “He’s trouble.”

  The girl looked mildly impressed with the badge, and eased up for a closer look at it.

  “Man, how come she’s always right? If you’re a cop, how come you have that rocking coat? And she has those chill boots?”

  “If you’re a kid, why aren’t you in school?”

  “Yo, school let out hours ago.”

  The accompanying eye roll, Eve had to admit, was practiced and perfect.

  “My mom says Mrs. Aimes works really hard, and tries her best and doesn’t deserve trouble like her son, and how he’s going to end up dead or in jail. I bet you put him in jail so she’ll be right again.”

  Eve dug out a card. “If you hear him come back, contact me. Don’t speak to him and, like your mother said, don’t open the door.”

  “I don’t speak to him anyway—and if my mom knew how he looked at me a couple of times, she’d…” She looked up from the card, clever blue eyes narrowing. “I know what Homicide is. I need to tag my mom. She’s at work. I don’t want her walking home by herself if that pervy jerk’s killed somebody.”

  “Tag your mom. Otherwise, keep this quiet. Do you know when his mother usually gets home?”

  “I think around seven or eight most nights. Except Fridays and Saturdays she works late and it’s more like eleven, I guess. She works at the Sky Mall at Trendy. She gives me discount vouchers sometimes. She’s nice. I need to tag my mom. She’ll be starting home soon.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Carrie Dru.”

  “Carrie, we have a warrant for Aimes’s arrest, and it includes entry into his residence. So we’re going inside.”

  “Can you do that?”

  Eve tapped her badge. “Yeah. You go inside, stay inside.”

  Without another word, Carrie popped inside, closed the door. Eve heard locks click.

  Engaging her recorder, Eve moved back to Aimes’s apartment door. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and Peabody, Detective Delia, mastering into suspect’s apartment.”

  She drew her weapon, and did just that.