by J. D. Robb
“He gets a cut?” Eve demanded.
“Sort of. How it reads?” Now McNab scooted up in his seat. “Cops bust one of the sex workers, Cohen goes in as their representative. He doesn’t have to be an accredited lawyer to do that, as long as the person represented is aware he’s not. He takes a fee and lists that as part of his consulting business. It’s tangled, Dallas, but it’s all down there in his records.”
“No mention of Pickering?”
“I ran a search of the name to speed it up, got nothing.”
“Okay.” She pulled into Central’s garage. “I want you to fine-tune this while we take Cohen into Interview. Anything you get, anything, you pass on when you get it.”
“It’s a lot. I can ask the captain or maybe Callendar to jump in.”
“Whatever it takes.” She thought of her approach as they walked to the elevator. “Peabody, have him brought up. He can sweat in the box while I work this out a little. And I need to update Whitney. McNab, copy everything to my office comp.”
“Already done.”
“You’re worth the coffee.” Impatient with the elevator, she pushed off, hopped on a glide with Peabody trotting after her.
In her office she contacted Whitney, played it out, sent a quick text to Roarke that she was going in.
She wished she had time to read through, even skim through, what McNab had dug out, but the clock was ticking.
Bang-Two, she thought. He’d pulled another partner/client from the Bangers, someone ambitious, looking to undermine Jones.
Jorgenson. He just kept fitting the bill.
Jones cuts back on Cohen’s take, she thought, so Cohen’s fine with the undermining.
Killing two people, putting the cops’ target on Jones’s back? Serious undermining. Just how much did Cohen know?
She put together a file—a nice, thick one—took time for another hit of coffee, then headed out.
“Let’s burn his balls, Peabody.”
Peabody aimed a look—the Officer Puppy look. “Do I have to be good cop?”
“Today? No good cops in the box.”
“Woo! He’s in Interview A.”
“He’s probably going to start bitching about false arrest, harassment, and other bollocks,” Eve said as they walked. “When we get going, it’s going to all be a big misunderstanding and how we’re guilt-by-associationing him.”
“Well, he is guilty by association.”
“Oh yeah.” Eve paused outside the Interview room. “Once he realizes we’ve got him on the tax evasion, the fraud, profiting from illegals, he’s going to start talking deal.”
“And we say screw that.”
“Depends.”
Peabody actually danced in place—the frustrated dance. “Aw, come on, Dallas.”
“How much do we care about him doing time in some white-collar cage for the tax shit? That’s the feds’ worry—but we use it as a hammer on the murders.”
“Ooooh! Squeeze him with the taxes, the fraud.” Following, Peabody nodded and changed to a quick, satisfied shuffle. “Then dangle a deal, maybe, if he flips on the rest.”
“Right. We use a deal, the idea of one, like the candy at the end of the stick.”
“It’s a carrot at the end of the stick.”
“Who the hell wants a carrot when there’s candy? Reo’s up to date, on her way in. Let’s see how it goes.”
As they walked in, Eve noted Cohen looked a lot worse for wear, and the orange jumpsuit didn’t do much for his sallow complexion.
“Record on. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and Peabody, Detective Delia, entering Interview with Cohen, Samuel.”
She read off the applicable case files over his as-expected bitching.
Outrageous! Demands to speak to her superior. Threats to have her badge.
“Pipe down!” Peabody snapped, with enough lash in her voice to have Cohen goggling at her.
“Who do you think you are?” he managed when he recovered.
“Peabody, Detective Delia.” She sat across from him. “Also known as your worst nightmare.”
Eve might have rolled her eyes, but Peabody coming on strong and pissy left Cohen obviously shaken.
Eve sat, set down the file, and used a flat, cool tone in contrast. “Have you been read your rights, Mr. Cohen?”
“I will not be interrogated by a pair of underlings. I demand to speak to your superior and lodge a formal complaint.”
“Okay then. Samuel Cohen, you have the right to remain silent.”
As she read the Revised Miranda into the record, he talked over and around her. “Do you understand your rights and obligations in these matters?”
“I’ve been harassed, my reputation impugned. I spent the night in a holding cell!”
“Let the record show Mr. Cohen refuses to answer. This Interview will be postponed, and the subject returned to Holding until such time as a psychiatric evaluation can determine if subject is capable of understanding his constitutional rights.
“We’re backed up on the psych evals, aren’t we, Peabody?”
“Logjammed.” Peabody gave Cohen a ferocious smile. “It’ll be two, three days before they can get to him.”
“I know what game you’re playing,” Cohen said as Eve rose, rattling his restraints as he folded his arms. “I’m not going back to a cell.”
Eve slapped her palms on the table just hard enough to make Cohen jump. “You’re trying to bust my balls over a basic yes-or-no question. Answer or you’ll spend the next seventy-two in a cage, on the wait list for psych.”
“Of course I know my rights and obligations. I’m a lawyer, for God’s sake.”
“And did you give legal advice to Marcus Jones, aka Slice, and/or any member of the gang known as the Bangers in exchange for financial remunerations, for goods, and/or for services?”
He did a decent imitation of an insulted scowl. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You are acquainted with Marcus Jones and, in fact, have a business partnership with him involving several real estate properties?”
He’d obviously had time to work on his outraged and impatient face in Holding, Eve thought.
“I’ve already explained that the very slight acquaintance with Jones is and has been business. A fact you twisted and used to upset and frighten my fiancée.”
“It’s a considerable financial partnership to form with a ‘slight acquaintance,’ and one even minimal vetting would have revealed as a gang member, and one who’s served time.”
“Forming such a partnership with a questionable character isn’t illegal.”
“No, neither is using money from your—and let me break the news—former fiancée to finance the partnership illegal. Unless, of course, you obtained that money through fraudulent means—which you did. And unless you then created shell companies and underground accounts to then conceal the profits from those ventures, thereby evading the taxes and fees due on same.”
“That’s preposterous. Eldena signed all the agreements and documents.”
“That’s something her lawyer—she’s got one, by the way—will take up with you.” As his mouth opened and closed, she continued, “But she didn’t sign on to those shell companies, to those underground accounts.”
His gaze slid away, pinned itself to the mirrored wall. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You keep really good records,” Peabody said with another ferocious grin. (Somebody else has been practicing, Eve thought.) “Then you add in the stupid by keeping the really good records right on your home-office comp.”
The outrage came back, but this time with the first beads of sweat popping out. “El had no right, no authority, to allow you to compromise my office or the equipment therein. I’ll file a motion to—”
He broke off when Eve opened the file, took out the warrant, pushed it across the table. “Duly authorized. We’ll set aside—for Eldena’s lawyer to pick up—the fraudulent manner in which you bilked a woman who had the poor judgme
nt to trust you. But what I have in here…” She began to sift through the papers in the file. “Yeah, multiple accounts set up for the express purpose of tax evasion.”
“Establishing tax shelters is perfectly legal.”
“Not the way you did it—fake names, Sam, fake addresses. You know, tsk. Of course, the feds are going to do more than wag a finger at you over this.”
“There’s absolutely no need to involve the federal authorities.” He patted a hand in the air as if to tell her to slow down. More beads of sweat popped over his top lip. “I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.”
She kicked back, shot up her eyebrows at Peabody. “An arrangement?”
“It’s a lot of money,” Peabody speculated.
“I’m certainly willing to compensate you for keeping this matter—one that falls into a gray area—contained.”
“‘Compensate’?” Peabody pursed her lips.
“We’ll say five percent.”
“Five percent of the monies held in all those accounts,” Peabody qualified, “if we don’t notify the FBI, and look the other way on the fraud?”
Smiling a little, Cohen spread his hands as far as his restraints allowed. “We all benefit.”
“Just business,” Eve said. “Except … That sounds like a bribe, doesn’t it, Peabody?”
“It’s got that ring to it. Just like the one he tried on the booking officer.”
“That was a misunderstanding! You’re misunderstanding me.”
“No, you were really clear. For the record, that’s a second count of attempting to bribe police officers. And we haven’t even gotten to the fact that Jones, you, and the Bangers operate as organized crime, which brings in RICO. Your really good records list the percentages you took from their illegals dealing, from their unlicensed sex workers, their underground club, their protection racket, from their identity theft operation.”
“I had nothing to do with any of that. Those are simply consultant fees for legal advice. I was not involved in any illegal activity.”
“You profited from it, you were aware of it and failed to report these activities to the authorities.”
“I—I was engaged as legal consultant, and therefore bound by confidentiality.”
“Bullshit! Bullshit!” Peabody exploded, surging up to push her face into Cohen’s. “You were disbarred in the first fucking place.”
“That was a misunderstanding, and I intend to correct it. As a matter of integrity—”
Peabody made a grab for him—a feint—but even as Eve swallowed a laugh, she knew her role. She jumped up, held her partner back. “Easy now.”
“This piece of shit’s talking integrity? He takes a percentage of money from selling illegals to addicts, to kids! From people just trying to run a business and afraid they’ll get burned out or put in the hospital. And we haven’t even gotten to two dead bodies.”
She bared her teeth at Cohen. “What was your fee for that, you shitbag fuck? What’s your percentage of two bodies in the morgue?”
“I had nothing to do with— I don’t even know those people. You’ve lost your minds! You—you threatened me. I have nothing more to say. I’m going to engage legal counsel.”
“With what?” Eve tossed back. “Your accounts are frozen.”
“You can’t do that!”
“Done. But since you’re entitled to legal counsel, we’ll arrange for a public defender.”
“I don’t accept that. I do not accept that. I invoke my right to counsel. I still have contacts. You’re required to allow me to engage my own counsel.”
“Sure, and good luck with that. Make sure you let whoever you try to rope in know they’ll be defending you on accessory to murder charges—two counts—and various other state and federal crimes. Interview suspended while subject attempts to engage legal counsel.”
She stepped out, signaled to a uniform, ordered him to take Cohen back to Holding and allow him to contact legal counsel.
“Did I go too far?” Peabody asked her. “I felt like I had it going, but then he calls for a lawyer.”
“No, you were good. He was going to try to lawyer up sooner or later. He figured he could bullshit his way out of it, but kept digging himself a bigger hole.”
She watched Detective Strong and Reo come out of Observation. Strong grinned, shot out a finger at Peabody. “Badass.”
“Thanks.”
“He may be able to tag up a lawyer as slimy as he is,” Eve commented. “It isn’t going to help. We’re going to have the FBI horning in before we get him back in there, most likely. I need you to hold them off,” she said to Reo.
“Already on that page. You gave me some nice ammo in there for that. We’re handing them a platter loaded with goodies. I can wrangle you time to work some names out of him on the murders. He breaks, they get even more.”
“He’ll break.”
Hell, Eve thought, she could already see the cracks forming.
“It’s taking time because, Jesus, he’s delusional. He believes his own bullshit. Just business, not involved, consulting fees. I figure we string that out some, then wrap him up in his own bullshit. Who consulted with him about taking out Pickering and Duff?”
She looked back at Reo. “When it gets through the delusional bullshit that he’s wrapped, he’s going to want a deal.”
“He needs to go down for whatever part he played with Lyle,” Strong insisted. “With Duff, too.”
“Didn’t say otherwise. How much will the feds deal?” she asked Reo. “If he rats out the gang—if they can get key players on racketeering.”
“Dallas—”
“I’ve got an idea how to play this,” she interrupted Strong. “I need some room for it. The asshole’s tried two bribes already—one on the fucking record. It’s how he thinks. Compensation. I want to offer him some compensation. Damn it.”
She yanked out her comm when it signaled.
Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. See the officers at 21 Forsythe re: the body identified as Aimes, Barry.
“Responding now. Damn it, goddamn it,” she muttered as she shoved her comm back in her pocket. “Reo, you work those feds. It’s up to three bodies now. Strong, do you want in on this?”
“Damn right.”
“Then let’s move.”
* * *
“Forsythe’s Chinatown,” Peabody said when they reached the garage and climbed in Eve’s vehicle.
“I know.”
“So we’ve got a wannabe Banger dead inside what’s probably Dragon territory.”
“Somebody wants a gang war.” The base of it, Eve thought, was just that simple. “It’s a twofer. Snip off a loose end, like Duff, and push farther into the competitor’s territory. Somebody’s beating the war drums, and that’s stupid. Because we’ll follow the beat right to him.”
“Lieutenant,” Strong began from the backseat, “I’m not going to second-guess you. I’d be one of the last who’d ever do that.”
“But?” Eve prompted.
“Lyle was mine. He deserves justice. From what I saw in the box, from what we have on him, I don’t see opening up a deal to Cohen needs to happen.”
“Three dead, Detective. Two more who might be, and Christ knows how many will be if this does escalate into a war. A deal on the federal side gives me a lever with Cohen. He understands deals.”
She flicked a glance in the rearview mirror at Strong’s hard, unhappy face.
“Peabody, in the time we’ve worked together have you ever known me to advocate, much less push, for a deal that would deny the victims justice?”
“No.” Peabody shifted, looked back at Strong. “No,” she repeated.
“I’ll run how I see the play through for you,” Eve told Strong. “I’m going to want you on board.”
She outlined her strategy as she pushed into Chinatown, wound through the traffic clogging the streets, the tourists taking advantage of a decent day to shop and take vids.
Rather than waste time l
ooking for parking, she pulled into a no-parking zone, flipped up her On Duty light.
She saw the police barricade up ahead and the people crowded up to it, craning necks to see something exciting.
And the very bold street thief winding through the crowd like a quiet river while nimbly picking pockets.
“For Christ’s sake,” Eve grumbled.
She pushed through the crowd and, since the thief was in the act of lifting a wallet from a back pocket, she managed to grab him by the collar before he spotted her.
He tried a spin—nimbly—managed a backfist she avoided, almost completely. Annoyed by the almost completely, she swept his legs from under him and pinned him to the ground with her knee.
He let out a spate of what she assumed was Chinese, and one of the onlookers—female, fruity Brit accent—shouted, “Police! This woman attacked this young man. Police!”
“I am the police.” Eve dragged out her badge and applied more pressure with her knee as her captive wiggled like a worm. “Sir,” she said to the man directly in front of her, “you should put that recorder down and secure your wallet.”
He frowned, reached back. His mouth dropped open. “Margo! He was picking my pocket! Holy cow this is exciting. Could you say your name, Officer, and say something, you know, official?”
A lot of somethings she couldn’t say leaped to mind. “Peabody, get a uniform to handle this.”
“Strong already moved on that.”
As Eve slapped on restraints, the thief continued to wiggle, squirm, and protest in Chinese at the top of his lungs.
Several more people crowded in to record the moment for their social media pages and/or friends at home.
A uniformed officer strode through, ordering people to move aside. Then he looked down, shook his head. “Knock off the Mandarin, Charlie, you were born in New York. I’ve got this, Lieutenant, appreciate it. Working a crime scene, Charlie, you moron. Right down the block, sir, and to the alley on the left.”