Connections in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “He gave them to me for doing the solid.”

  “I see, so you didn’t buy them last week as previously stated.”

  “I traded. The solid for the shoes.”

  “Who’s trying to get who in the shit now?” Peabody wondered. “The only prints on the shoes are Lyle Pickering’s and yours.”

  “I guess he used up his compassion,” Eve said. “He didn’t have any left when he gang-raped and beat Dinnie Duff to death with Aimes and Washington. He’d really used it up before he slit the throat of Gary Aimes. I mean otherwise, he’s a goddamn humanitarian.”

  “I didn’t do nothing. Snapper’s just trying to twist me up, that’s what. I never did none of those things, and nobody can say I did.”

  “You did all of those things, and we’re saying you did.”

  “It’s my word against Snapper’s.”

  “More it’s your stupidity against his, and I’d say they’re running about the same pace. What do you think, Peabody?”

  “Neck and neck from where I’m sitting.”

  “I ain’t stupid. You guys are the stupid ones.”

  “Well, let’s run that stupid race,” Eve suggested. “You had the brooch you took from the Pickering apartment in your damn pocket and Lyle Pickering’s shoes on your feet when we arrested you.”

  “He’s pulling into the lead,” Peabody decided.

  “And we have a statement from the female who had the bracelet you traded her for sex, also taken from the Pickering apartment.”

  “I don’t know what a fucking brooch is! And that Yolanda’s a lying whore.”

  “A brooch is jewelry, a pin.” Eve tossed the photo on the table. “And I didn’t say the name of the female who had the bracelet. Adding, we found your DNA on Duff’s body. You use a lot of product to get that vertical lift, asshole, but that doesn’t affect the DNA on hair.”

  “Everybody’s got hair.”

  “Jesus Christ, is basic science a foreign language to you? Everybody doesn’t have your hair or your DNA.”

  Chesterfield tried a lip curl, but it wobbled some. “You don’t have no DNA on me, my old lady wouldn’t sign me up. She’s smarter than that.”

  “Too bad she didn’t pass the smarts to you. You drank a Coke during processing. We took your DNA from the tube, matched it with the hair on Duff’s body. Like we took the knife you had when you were arrested, and we got Barry Aimes’s blood off the blade and hilt.”

  “Then there’s the bloody shirt he left in his flop at the HQ,” Peabody pointed out. “Slitting throats is messy.”

  “That’s not my shirt. I found that knife, and the pin thing, too.”

  “Where?”

  “On the street.” His eyes wheeled. “No, in Snapper’s flop. They were in Snapper’s flop.”

  “You want us to believe you’re a thief but not a murderer? Explain why both the knife and the pin have your prints on them, and not Washington’s? You can’t,” Eve snapped. “You can’t lie fast enough, and he’s already rolled on you. Bolt told you what you had to do to be worthy, and you did it. You pumped that syringe into Pickering, you raped and beat Duff and left her in the neutral zone hoping to start a gang war, then you cut Aimes’s throat, transported him to Chinatown, and dumped his body outside Fan Ho’s family restaurant.”

  “I was just there.” His wheeling eyes filled now, with tears, to join the tat at the inside corner of his eye. “I didn’t do any of it. I was just there. I was high. Bolt says we gotta do it.”

  “Start there, and be specific. What did Bolt tell you to do?”

  When they’d finished, Peabody hit Vending for water for both of them.

  “I don’t know about you, but I need to hydrate. I thought, after we nailed those two, I’d want to high-five.” Peabody cracked the tube. “But he was pitiful. I mean, God, he cried through the last twenty minutes. Not his fault, he was high. Not his fault, Bolt made him do it.”

  “So we’ll take Bolt next.” Eve rubbed at her eyes and the headache behind them. “Check on the team we sent out to get the van they used to transport Aimes. See if the sweepers have started to process it. Then take your break.”

  As they walked toward the bullpen, Eve spotted Crack and Rochelle sitting on a bench outside.

  “Go ahead on the van,” Eve said. “I’ll take them.”

  “I can get updates from the other interviews while I’m on break. It’s sitting-down work.”

  Eve continued toward Crack and Rochelle as they rose.

  “Don’t blame Wilson,” Rochelle said quickly. “He’s only here because he couldn’t talk me out of coming. After I heard the reports about the arrests … You were hurt.”

  “Job hazard.”

  “Skinny white girl’s tough.”

  “Yeah,” Eve said to Crack. “We’ve got a lounge.” Eve gestured. “Let’s go in there.”

  “I know you’re busy,” Rochelle continued. “And taking time to talk to me adds to your day, but anything, anything you can tell me. I wanted to come in person because—”

  “Less chance of me brushing you off.”

  “Yes. Yes, exactly.”

  Eve led the way into the lounge, nearly empty, as she had so many cops in so many interviews or transporting prisoners to and from. “Coffee’s terrible,” she warned.

  “I don’t need anything.” Rochelle sat at a table with Eve, took Crack’s hand in a strong grip. “Except whatever you can tell me.”

  She looked as if she hadn’t slept in days, Eve thought, and in those exhausted eyes need lived.

  “We have statements for the media later today, so what I’m telling you now can’t get out. It could hamper the rest of the investigation.”

  “Is there something I can tell my family?”

  “I need you to keep a lid on this until we’re ready to go public.”

  “All right.”

  “Of the three men who killed your brother, we have two in custody and both are charged with his murder. First degree. The third’s dead, at their hands.”

  “You have them.” Rochelle’s eyes swam. “You have them.”

  “There’s a fourth individual, in custody. We’ll interview him next. He’s implicated, not in the execution of the murder, but in the ordering of it.”

  Rochelle let the tears come, let them roll silently down her face. “Is it Marcus Jones?”

  “I can tell you it was not. I intend to put Jones away for a host of other crimes. But not for your brother. We’ve recovered the items taken from your apartment, and they’ll be returned to you once this is finished. The illegals in your brother’s room were planted there. We have full confessions.”

  “He didn’t start using again.” Rocking herself, Rochelle let out a shaky breath. “I knew he hadn’t, but it helps that you know that, too. That everyone will know.”

  “Rochelle, your brother wasn’t using again, or involved with his old gang. He didn’t lie to you. He did omit something he’d done and was doing. Lyle was working with the police as a confidential informant.”

  As more tears fell, Rochelle pressed a hand to her mouth. “He was helping the police? You?”

  “Not me. When I can, I’ll arrange for you to speak with the detective he worked with. He didn’t tell you because he couldn’t tell you. He may have saved lives, he certainly passed on information that aided in arrests, in taking criminals off the street. He didn’t just beat the odds, he smashed them to dust. You’re right to be proud of him.”

  “I am. I am. Is this why … Was he killed because they found out?”

  “I don’t know that yet. You need to give us time, and you need to keep what I’ve told you at this table until I can clear it.”

  “I will. I swear to you.” With one hand still in Crack’s, Rochelle pressed the other to her heart. “He was making amends, making amends to people he hurt before by helping the police. If you could tell the officer he worked with I’m grateful. I’m grateful he was given the opportunity.”

  “I will. I ne
ed to get back.”

  “Can we sit here for a couple minutes? I just need to sit for a minute.”

  “As long as you need,” Eve said as she rose.

  She strode back toward Homicide, paused when she heard Crack call her name.

  “I’m not going to keep you, but I got one question.”

  “I went as far as I could already.”

  “No, this is personal for me. I want to know if you took down the motherfucker who did that to your face.”

  She had to smile a little, and more than a little fiercely. “Yeah, I took her down. And she doesn’t look so pretty, either.”

  “Good enough.” He stepped back, and as she walked away, called out, “I know some skinny white girls, but don’t know any prettier than you.”

  She headed to her office, for coffee before she pulled in updates on the other arrests. Reo already had coffee, and Eve’s desk chair.

  “Sorry, I needed a quiet space for a couple minutes.”

  Eve waved her back down. “I’m just here for coffee.”

  “Well, while you’re getting it, you might like to know that Donita Haver, or Tank as she prefers—and since you’re you, you know that’s the woman who tried to beat you with a bat—has confessed to the attempted murder of a police officer.”

  “What? Wait. She confessed not to assault with a deadly but to attempted murder?”

  “Bragged about it, hopes to get another chance. She was actually smart enough, as a surprising number of them aren’t, to demand legal rep. Then she coldcocked her public defender with an elbow when he was rattling off how she wasn’t aware you were the police and tried to advise her to claim diminished capacity.”

  Reo held up a finger as she scrolled through her notes. “I quote: ‘Knew that cunt was a cop. I’d’ve cracked her fucking head open and had a good taste of her brains if she hadn’t had the fucking helmet. Next time I will.’”

  Considering, Eve drank some coffee. “Does she know, in New York, that’s forty to life?”

  “She doesn’t seem to care. Claims no cage can hold her, and she’ll bust out, hunt you down, and eat your brains. However, during the interview—post-PD, as he required medical attention and she said fuck the lawyers—Baxter and Trueheart managed to get her to confess to a couple of other assaults, the beating death—proudly with her bare fists—of an illegals dealer, and an assortment of others. We’re going to put her in an off-planet cage for the rest of her life—she’s twenty-four, by the way.”

  “The rest of her life works for me.”

  “Remember that, because we’ve made a few deals along the way, lower levels.”

  “They do short time, they’ll end up back in. It’s how it is.” Eve thought of Lyle Pickering. “With rare and goddamn shining exceptions.”

  “We’ve also bagged a number for outstanding warrants. Jenkinson and Reineke pulled the location of a flop used to house more sex workers. You were in Interview, but Whitney sent a team out to scoop them up. Strong’s working Ho now. She started with a couple of his underlings, worked up a nice file. A few deals made.”

  “Will they help her put him away?”

  “I believe they will. He’s lawyered—not a PD, but we’re going to get him. Jorgenson has a PD, one who came to me proposing a deal.” Reo examined her fingernails. “I scoffed and chortled.”

  “‘Scoffed and chortled’?”

  “It goes like this.”

  Reo made a somehow ladylike snorting sound, then a low-throated, nicely evil laugh.

  “Excellent.”

  “I practice. From what you got from Washington, there won’t be a deal on this one.”

  “We just finished getting corroboration from Chesterfield, and a few more details.” She checked her wrist unit. “I’m going to have Jorgenson brought up.”

  “I’ll notify his attorney of record.”

  “Keep the desk. I still need to—”

  Eve broke off as she heard footsteps—a smooth, steady stride. It didn’t surprise her to see Kyung step into her doorway.

  He was a tall, slick-looking black man, and as media liaison, not an asshole.

  “Lieutenant, APA Reo, I’m sorry to interrupt.”

  “The commander said this afternoon, later this afternoon. It’s not even afternoon yet.”

  “Nearly. I’ve just spoken with Chief Tibble, who is now on his way back to the city. He would like to target four o’clock. If this doesn’t give you enough time, I can and will push it back.”

  Eve calculated. No point trying to wiggle out of it, so she calculated. She wanted to close out Jorgenson, Jones, and Cohen. “I can let you know by fifteen hundred.”

  “I can work with that. I will have a statement.” He held up a hand before Eve could object. “Not for you to make, but for you to clear, to make sure we have all the facts in order, and if you choose, for you to spring off of during your time. In addition, I’m aware you rarely use facial enhancements.”

  “Screw that. I’m not going to—”

  Again, he held up a hand. “I was going to request you not make this one of those rare times. Let’s show them what our cops are made of.”

  Eve drained her coffee, set the mug down again. “You continue to not be an asshole, Kyung.”

  “I do my best to maintain that benchmark. APA Reo, if I could have a few minutes.”

  “Use the office,” Eve told them.

  Eve left them, used Baxter’s desk to order Jorgenson brought to Interview, to text Roarke the next promised update.

  Two for two now. On deck with number three.

  A moment later, he responded.

  Swing away, Lieutenant.

  “For the fucking fences,” she murmured.

  Peabody swiveled around. “I can give you a running list of who’s completed Interview, the charges, the disposition.”

  “Send it to my PPC.” She started to rise when Baxter came in, but he shook his head, sat on the corner of the desk.

  “We’re taking a break. I told Trueheart to take a walk outside, get some air.”

  “Because?”

  “We just finished with one. He’s fourteen. His child advocate and his mother were both with him. The mother’s begging us to help her, to help him. She says a couple of the Bangers started coming around the school a couple years ago, trying to recruit.”

  “We know that’s true.”

  “Yeah. Gave some free illegals, talked trash. She said her boy stayed out of their way, or tried to. And one night she’s coming home from work, she gets raped, beaten. We’ve got the incident report, so she’s not bullshitting. She didn’t know who attacked her. What else she didn’t know is a couple of the gang cornered the kid after, told him if he didn’t work for them, she’d get worse next time. Maybe end up dead next time. If he told her or anybody, they’d make sure of it.”

  “What did he do?”

  “What he was told. They made a runner out of him, a delivery boy. He’d deliver illegals, pick up protection money. Up until six months ago, when this went down, the kid was a decent student. After, his grades take a dive, he gets in trouble in school, loses weight because he won’t eat half the time. Even in there, he won’t talk at first. Kid’s terrified, LT, you can see it all over him.”

  “What was he doing at their HQ last night?”

  “Delivering a package to Jones. Trueheart eased it all out of him, took some time, a lot of care, but he got it out of him.”

  “Can he identify the ones who threatened him?”

  “Can and did. We’re going to take them next. But he said he had to report to Jones once a week. And Jones said how they needed good young blood like him. How it was fine he wanted to protect his mother, but they were his family now. If he forgot that, well, his mother would pay for it.”

  “I want Mira to talk to the kid.”

  “Already notified her.”

  “Let’s keep him under wraps, him and the mother. We don’t know how many of these assholes are still on the streets. Any ot
her relatives?”

  “She’s got a sister in Queens, parents in Brooklyn.”

  “She should pick one, go there, once Mira clears it.”

  “Same page. Dallas, he said they’re pulling in girls his age for sex work. Either they find ones living on the edge, or use tactics like they did with him.”

  The headache that had never quite faded began to drum again. “We’ve got a location on where they keep sex workers. If there’s more, if they have another place for minors, we’ll get that, too. You push that in the rest of the interviews, pass the word. Push it.

  “Peabody, break’s over. Jorgenson’s up.”

  “I’m ready. I’m freaking armed and ready.”

  He didn’t look like much, Eve thought when she walked into Interview. On the short side at five-seven with that compact build. The spiked red hair flamed over a moon-white face.

  He sat with his arms crossed and a look of boredom in pale green eyes while his overanxious public defender agitated beside him.

  “My client has spent over sixteen hours waiting for this Interview. His due process—”

  “Hold it. Record on. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and Peabody, Detective Delia, entering Interview with Jorgenson, Kenneth, and his court-appointed attorney. Please state your name for the record, sir.”

  “Paul Quentin.”

  Eve named various case files as she and Peabody took their seats.

  “As I said, my client—”

  “Had to wait his turn,” Eve supplied. “Mr. Jorgenson—”

  “I’ll speak for my client, Lieutenant. My client prefers being addressed and/or referred to as Bolt.”

  “Is that so?”

  Prissy-looking guy, Eve thought, and still green. Mixed race, skinny in his suit and carefully knotted tie. She imagined he was still young enough, still new enough to be idealistic.

  “Are you aware of the charges against your client?”

  “Of course, and my client, of course, refutes them. My client can name two witnesses who will verify his whereabouts at the time Lyle Pickering died.”

  “First, your client is charged with ordering the murder of Mr. Pickering, not of carrying out the murder.”

  Eve aimed her gaze at that moon-white face, those bored eyes. “We’re aware he doesn’t do his own dirty work.”