by J. D. Robb
“Do you intend to manage the nailing tonight?”
Wouldn’t that be just fine? Eve thought. But. “No. We need inventory on what we confiscate, all these people have to be processed. First, I want to see what’s in the room with the extra filters. The one I believe BJ guy and the finger-snapper were in talking to Jorgenson.
“I need to ID this Ticker. Then I need to coordinate with Strong, write this up. Then we’ll see.”
“Somewhere in there you’ll have a round with ice patches and a healing wand.”
“Somewhere.”
“And a meal.”
She thought about it. “I could eat. But I want to see that room. You should go home.”
“Then who’d handle the ice patches, healing wand, and the meal?”
“I can take care of it.” The smirk she gave him stung her bloodied lip a little, but it was worth it. “Dreamcake.”
He smiled at her. “Let’s look at the room, and whatever else you need here. I’ll go into Central with you. Then we’ll see.”
She could go with that, and started back to the house with him. She found Baxter coming down the stairs.
“Most of this place is a sty,” he told her. “Individual flops high on the sty gauge. We’re logging illegals, stickers, saps, black-market stunners. How’s Peabody?”
“Should be at Dimatto’s clinic by now. Sweepers are headed in. You can get Trueheart, go have your home-cooked.”
“Yeah?”
“Briefing at seven-thirty tomorrow. We’re going to be rotating cops and bad guys in and out of the box. It’s going to take hours to process all of them tonight, not to mention to process what we take out of here.”
“You sticking?” he asked as she started up.
“I just want a walk-through,” she said, knowing if she said she was sticking, he’d stick, too.
“Okay. Catch you in the A.M. Nice haul, boss. Damn nice haul.”
She’d consider it a nice haul when she charged three people with murder.
She found Jenkinson and Reineke, the latter with his own bloodied lip. As she talked to them, Roarke wandered. Baxter wasn’t wrong about the sty. Beyond the broken furniture, the toppled tables, glasses, and chaos of what had obviously been a nasty fight lay the smell of unwashed bodies and clothing, stale sex, the Zoner smoke that had penetrated the walls over the years.
He’d had his times, Roarke thought, in places not much better. In some considerably worse. But even in those days had kept those visits brief. Summerset had ingrained standards into him, he supposed.
He took a scan of what he assumed to be Jones’s bedroom. Cleaner than the flops and with a decent bed. As he hadn’t sealed up, Roarke took care not to touch anything. He stood outside the closet, noted the clothes were newer, better, more plentiful—and used an elbow to move some aside.
Then he wandered back again to Eve.
“I believe you’ll find a false wall in the closet. Jones’s bedroom closet. And, no, I didn’t touch it,” he said, anticipating her.
“Somebody get me a kit!” she ordered, then headed for the bedroom.
In the closet she saw what Roarke had seen—a seam in the wall that had no place there, and a small keypad lock.
She grabbed the kit Reineke hustled in to her, sealed up. After a quick debate, passed the can to Roarke.
“Seal up, open it. No point in calling in Marley when you’re right here.”
“Try nineteen, twelve, nine, three, five.”
“Why?”
“His name. Slice. They’re barking morons, Eve. Try the numeral equivalent of his street name.”
She did, and the lock disengaged. The door slid, shakily, into its pocket. Inside a mini D and C all but filled the small space.
“Barking morons,” she agreed. “What do you bet his records—all his side deals, the Banger business—it’s all on there?”
“I’d bet quite a bit on that.”
“Reineke, tag this for EDD, and let the sweepers know to check for other panels, other false walls. This one is priority. Then you and Jenkinson can go home. Seven-thirty briefing in the morning.”
Energized, she went straight up to the shielded room, and found Detectives Carmichael and Santiago.
Carmichael, hands on hips and sporting a black eye, looked on while Santiago, with blood on his shoes, manhandled a shelf away from the wall.
“Let me give you a hand there,” Roarke began, but Carmichael waved him off.
“He got manly, bet me he could move it himself.”
“Christ, Santiago.” Eve could only shake her head. “You’ve got a problem.”
“I can do this.”
The shelf shuddered, squealed against the floor—which showed scars from previous shifts.
“You can see they’ve got setups for making false IDs,” Carmichael continued as her partner struggled. “We already tagged the comps for EDD. We spotted the marks on the floor. Hell, a drunk, one-eyed rookie would’ve spotted them. So we figure, being detectives, there’s something behind the shelf unit.”
“Almost got it,” Santiago claimed between gritted teeth.
“Speaking of eyes.” Roarke took an ice patch out of his pocket.
“Hey, thanks.” Carmichael cracked it, laid it against her eye. “You carry these around?”
“Tonight I do.”
“Got it. See?”
Carmichael peered out of one eye. Grunted. “Huh! Big! Strong!”
Santiago just flicked his middle finger against his chin. “Keypad here.”
Eve stepped to it. “It wouldn’t be ‘Slice’ this time. This is for the gang, not Jones personally. Simple code the people authorized could remember. ‘Fist’? That’s their symbol.”
When she started to count on her fingers, Roarke rattled the numbers off.
“Six, nine, nineteen, twenty. I’ve … played with codes in my time. It’s a basic one.”
And correct, Eve thought as the lock disengaged.
This panel opened out, and led to a reasonably organized storage space. Illegals in one section, ID supplies in another, a few wrapped stacks of cash, electronics—mostly tablets and PPCs, and likely stolen—a cache of weapons and jewelry, wrist units.
“Can’t be more than five or six thousand street value on the illegals,” Santiago commented. “Might be for personal use, or quick street sales.”
“They’ve got another place for storing and distribution. The feds have that. This? This is like a pool. Everybody puts in, and the lieutenants pass out shares when needed.”
“Stupid” was Carmichael’s take. “Even a half-assed raid would find this. And we’re going to find prints, DNA. The assholes are going into a cage because they’re not smart enough to cover their assholes.”
“I think they used to be smarter. Tag it,” Eve added. “And go home. Briefing at seven-thirty. Santiago, is that your blood on your shoes?”
“What blood? Shit! These are almost new. No, it’s not mine. Is Peabody okay? We heard she got banged up some.”
“Some. She’s all right. Seven-thirty,” Eve repeated, and walked out with Roarke. “‘Barking morons.’ I like that one, and it fits. A pack of wild dogs has more brains.”
She detoured to talk to sweepers already ghosting on scene in their white suits and booties. She thought she might carve out time the next day for another walk-through when the place was empty of cops and CIs.
“You drive,” she told Roarke. “I need to check on some things.”
“Louise will take good care of her. It’s our good luck Louise was nearby.”
“Yeah. But that’s not the only thing I need to check on.”
Just the first. She tagged McNab.
“Hey.” Relief breathed out in the single word. “No internal injuries, no breaks. Her shoulder’s going to be sore for a couple days, but she won’t need the sling. It’s the knee that’s bad. Louise treated it, and is giving us some stuff for it. She’s going to have to wear a brace for a few days, and isn’t real
happy about it. Damn good thing she was wearing the helmet. The asshole that pulled her down with him has a concussion and about a dozen stitches in his head. Shattered his elbow, too. Ain’t that a shame?”
“Okay, good. I’m briefing at seven-thirty tomorrow. If she’s not up for it—”
“She will be. She needs to finish it out. The fall, well, it banged up her pride a little, too, you know?”
“Tell her not to be stupid. Seven-thirty.”
She clicked off, let out a breath. And Roarke patted her hand as he got behind the wheel. Then he took the case of blockers he carried out of his pocket.
“No.”
“You still have work,” he pointed out. “Why be distracted by pain and discomfort?”
“Not distracted by it. Using it.”
And using it, she contacted Commander Whitney.
18
Eve hit her AutoChef for coffee the instant she walked into her office. Roarke followed it up by programming her a pizza.
“Oh my God, nothing’s ever smelled that good in the history of smells.”
“See that you eat it, and use these.” He set some ice patches on her desk.
“Okay, yeah. Want a couple slices before you head home?”
“I’m not heading home but up to EDD, where I wager I’ll find Feeney, Callendar, and my new friend Marley. I’ll order up there. Let me know when you’re wrapping things up for the night.”
Before she sat, he took her bruised face—gently, very gently—in his hands and laid his lips on hers.
Held there, just held there.
Understanding, she leaned in. “It probably looks worse than it is.”
“Of all the women I’ve known in my life you’re the only one who wouldn’t have even troubled to look to see for herself.”
She shrugged—felt the movement in various sore spots all the hell over her body. “Looking wouldn’t change it, right?”
Again gently, he brushed a hand over her hair. “Eat your pizza.”
“Count on it.”
Alone, she took that first slice, bit in, just sighed and chewed. She downed the coffee, every drop, because she needed it, then remembered Roarke stocked Pepsi in her AC, ordered a tube.
If you couldn’t have beer or wine, a Pepsi suited a pepperoni pizza just fine.
Eating with one hand, she contacted Reo.
The APA answered fast. “Good God, Dallas. You look terrible! How bad are you hurt?”
“It’s nothing.” Reo didn’t look terrible, Eve noted. She’d taken off her face gunk and looked sort of fresh. “We got twenty-five. Strong got nine. I’m dead sure I got the two still alive who killed Pickering, Duff, and Aimes. And the one who set it up. I’m briefing at seven-thirty tomorrow. You’re going to be filing a shit-ton of charges.”
“Including assaulting an officer, from the look of your face.”
“Yeah. With a deadly. Tank gets that.”
“Do we have an actual name?”
“Somewhere.”
“I’ll find it.”
“We can try for attempted murder of a police officer on Jones, as he fired on me—police stunner on full. That’s some icing on a fat cake. We found illegals, weapons, what will turn out to be stolen property, fake ID equipment, the works. And EDD is working on electronics we confiscated.”
“I’ll alert my boss.”
Eve polished off the slice, snagged another. “Cohen?”
“Sang like a bright yellow canary. You’ll want to talk to Teasdale, but I got the heads-up the feds raided the building serving as warehouse—a property also held by Cohen, Jones, and Vinn—and scooped up plenty. Including a handful of unlicensed sex workers who were, at the time, employed.
“Should I tag up with Detective Strong?”
“Tomorrow’s soon enough. We’re going to be processing for a while yet.”
“Then I’ll fill in my boss, get my beauty sleep, and see you in the morning. Good bust, Dallas. Get some ice on that face.”
“Right.”
After she broke transmission, she pressed a couple of fingers to her jaw. Felt it go straight through her skull like a spike. Maybe the ice wasn’t such a bad idea.
After she finished her second slice.
She exchanged reports with Teasdale, felt some solid satisfaction. Thought about a third slice as she set up to write her report. Looked around at the knock on her doorjamb.
“Officer Shelby. I didn’t know you were still here.”
“I was helping in processing, Lieutenant. Officer Quirk had the individual you told him to keep separate. He’s Denby Washington, goes by Snapper.”
“Of course he does.”
“Lieutenant, he had earrings matching the description of those taken from the Pickering apartment on his person.”
“You are fucking kidding me, Shelby.”
“No, sir, I am not fucking kidding you. More, sir, he had a set of black Bodell Exec-level earbuds also on his person.”
“Snap goes Snapper’s cage door.”
Shelby smiled a little. “I helped process an individual who goes by Ticker. Burke Chesterfield. And he had a brooch matching the description of the one taken from the Pickering apartment on his person. He was wearing—”
“Lightning high-tops,” Eve said. “Black with a white lighting bolt down the back. Size ten.”
“That’s affirmative. Sir, we had their jackets sent to the lab, as they may match the fibers recovered from Duff’s body. I also got DNA from Washington, as he’s not in the database. I got him a tube of Coke, which he accepted. The empty tube’s on its way to the lab.”
Eve sat back, let it play through her mind. Since she’d caught the quick glance Shelby made toward the pizza, she gestured to it. “Want a slice?”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. I don’t want to take your dinner.”
“I’m good. Have a slice.”
“Thanks.” She took one, bit in, and Eve saw the same rush of gratitude and pleasure move over Shelby’s face that had moved inside her own system. “This isn’t eatery pizza.”
“You bucking to make detective, Officer?”
“No, sir. I like the uniform. I’m learning a lot from Officer Carmichael. I want to say I’m grateful you put me with him. He’s a solid cop.”
“Yeah, he is. Do me a favor, Shelby, and make sure Washington and Chesterfield are kept away from each other. And both of them away from Jones and Kenneth Jorgenson.”
“Can do, sir. Appreciate the slice.”
“No problem. Take the rest.”
“Oh, but—”
“I’m done.” Eve held up the plate with the remaining slice. “Take it. Good work, Officer Shelby.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.”
After a long breath, Eve turned to her computer. She had to set the anger aside but, as she’d told Roarke, she used the pain to push herself through the report.
When it was done, she sent a memo to Harvo at the lab to flag the jackets as priority. Sent one to Dickhead—the lab chief—to turn the DNA sample around fast.
She didn’t bribe him as she often did to save time, but used the silent threat of adding Whitney to the memo.
She sent a quick memo to Reo, giving her the names of the suspects and, given the age of one, asking her to have Chesterfield treated as an adult.
She ordered herself to get up, to update her board, to just take the steps. Put together files for the briefing, reserve the conference room, book Interview rooms—all of them—and assign rotating teams for those interviews.
She thought about contacting Crack, but that was personal. She had to hold on that.
Instead she contacted Nadine.
“Finally! A message returned. If I can get a statement— Whoa, Dallas, somebody got past your guard. A few times.”
Unlike Reo, Nadine was in full makeup—camera ready. Eve imagined she’d been on camera, and would go back in front of it before her night ended.
After all, the NYPSD had just completed major bus
ts on two urban gangs.
“You have to wait on the statement.”
“Come on, Dallas, we’re already running with the story—and congratulations, by the way. It’s big. They pulled me back in to report on air. I just turned it over, but with a statement I can—”
“You have to wait.”
The snap in Eve’s voice had Nadine’s eyes narrowing. “How bad are you hurt?”
“I’m fine. Peabody got worse.”
“Peabody? What happened? Where is she? What—”
Eve cut Nadine off again. But she knew the friend asked, not the reporter.
“She’s okay. Louise took care of her. It’s not that. No statement tonight other than what the liaison’s sending out because it’s still in motion. I’m letting you know to get ready for tomorrow, and what I’m telling you goes nowhere until I give you the green.”
“All right.”
“This was a…” She trailed off, pressed her fingers to her eyes in an attempt to clear her head.
“Do you want me to come to you? Can I help?”
“No. No. This was a coordinated operation between the NYPSD and the FBI.”
“The FBI? How close did you hold that one? Who—”
“Just wait, Nadine. Between the department and the bureau dozens of arrests were made, several thousand dollars—you need to get the hard numbers—of illegals have been confiscated along with weapons and blah-blah. You can get all that.”
“Yes, I’ll get it.”
“In addition, the NYPSD recovered items stolen from Lyle Pickering’s apartment. Items taken when he was murdered. These items were on the persons of Denby Washington, age eighteen, and Burke Chesterfield, age seventeen. We’ll push to have Chesterfield interviewed, tried, and treated as an adult, and I don’t expect we’ll have any trouble there.”
“Have you interviewed them?”
“Tomorrow. And tomorrow I’m going to tell you we’ve charged a third individual, Kenneth Jorgenson, age twenty-three, as well as Washington and Chesterfield, for the murders of Pickering, Dinnie Duff—who was an accessory in Pickering’s murder—and in the murder of Barry Aimes who, along with the others named, murdered Pickering and Duff. A fourth man will be charged as accessory before and after the fact: Samuel Cohen.”
“The raids were to dig these people out? Why? Why did all these people conspire to kill Rochelle’s brother?”