by J. D. Robb
“I don’t think so, not when he may need it again.”
“Again.” Peabody eased into the passenger seat of Eve’s car. “You think he’s going to target another?”
“Odds are. Jaunty walk,” she reminded her partner, and she pulled out from the curb. “This was too much fun not to do again. But we run it straight. Look at boyfriends, girlfriends, exes, coworkers, clients.”
“Jess Barrow. He’s in a cage, but if anybody would want to get back at you and her, all at once, he qualifies. You busted him, she didn’t get him off.”
“She got him less time in a cage than he earned. But yeah, he bears a look. Then there’s the firm. Fitzhugh, now Bastwick—that’s two partners murdered in about two years. We go over her threat file with fricking microgoggles.”
“Um. How about yours?”
Eve drummed her fingers on the wheel as she drove toward Cop Central. “I wasn’t threatened. There, we’d look the other way. Into—what is it?—fan mail. Except I don’t keep any of that crap if it gets through to me.”
“I do. I got some really nice messages after the Icove vid came out.” Thinking of it had Peabody’s cheek pinking with pleasure. “My favorite’s from a twelve-year-old girl who said how she’d wanted to be a vid star, but now she wanted to be a cop like me. It was really sweet. You probably got a ton.”
“I don’t know.” Uncomfortable with all of it, Eve shifted. “If any came through Central, I dumped it on Kyung. He’s media liaison, right? If it came through the Hollywood people, I told them to deal with it. I’m a cop, for Christ’s sake.”
Peabody waited two full beats. “Well, they probably have all of it on file.”
Eve took a hand off the wheel to drag it violently through her hair. “Yeah, yeah, they probably do, and you’re right, it all needs to be read over and analyzed. Give me a second.”
She needed to settle down, simmer down. Hadn’t she just said she was a cop? Then she needed to start thinking like a cop.
Push the emotion, the sick dread, the damn headache to the side, and do what came next.
“We’ll get Mira to put some shrink type on it, coordinate between Hollywood and Kyung. Kyung’s no asshole, and he’ll streamline it, add the shrink type, a behavioral science type to analyze. If the message on the wall wasn’t a smoke screen—that’s low probability, but it’s not without merit—it’s likely the killer has communicated or tried to communicate with me in some way at some time. Feels this connection. So we’ll cover that area with people who know what to look for.”
“Okay. I’ll contact Kyung and dump it on him. He’s media liaison, right?” She tossed Eve’s words back at her. “He’ll liaise. If there are any red flags, we pick them up and follow them up.”
“Right again. Make that happen, Peabody,” Eve said as she drove into Central’s garage. “We keep a lid on it as long as we can, but we cover all the areas. I’m going straight up to Whitney,” she added when she’d parked. “I need to give the commander a full report, and asap. Get the ball rolling on the communications. Write up your report, send the commander a copy, send Mira a copy.”
“You should talk to her, too,” Peabody added, referring to the department’s top shrink and profiler.
“I know it. I will. Whitney first. He’s going to consider the pros and cons of leaving us—me—on this. I need to weigh the scale heavy on the pros.”
“I hadn’t thought about that. I should’ve thought of that. Damn it.” Peabody stepped onto the elevator with Eve.
“You handle the liaison shit. I’ll handle this. Work fast,” Eve ordered. “I want to get to the law offices and the morgue.”
Eve stayed on after Peabody escaped the elevator. Cops and civilian personnel crammed in, pried out, squeezed on. Normally, she’d have pushed her way off, taken one of the glides. But as annoying as they were, Central’s elevators were faster.
When she finally muscled her way off, she reminded herself to be clear, thorough, and dispassionate.
She reached Whitney’s outer office, and his admin.
“I need to see him.”
The woman’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “Lieutenant. You’re not on his schedule. I—”
“It’s important I speak with Commander Whitney as soon as possible.”
With a nod, and no questions, the admin tapped her earpiece, spoke in quiet tones.
“Sir, Lieutenant Dallas is here, and asks to speak with you. Yes, sir, now. Of course.” She tapped the earpiece again. “Go right in, Lieutenant.”
“Thanks.” Eve started toward the big double doors, paused. “Do you know Dr. Mira’s admin?”
“I do.” The woman smiled. “Quite well, as it happens.”
“She could take lessons,” Eve muttered, and opened Whitney’s door.
He sat behind his massive desk, a big, broad-shouldered man currently speaking on his desk ’link. He gestured Eve in, gave her the sign to wait.
She closed the door behind her, used the few moments it took him to end the call taking stock, making sure she would and could be dispassionate.
He ended the call, aimed a look from his dark eyes. He rode a desk, she thought, but his eyes were as canny as the street cop he’d once been.
“Leanore Bastwick.”
“Yes, sir.”
Though he gestured to a chair, Eve walked forward, stayed on her feet. “I wanted to apprise you of the situation, the status, in person.”
“So I gather.”
He had a wide, dark face topped by a short cap of hair where the salt was rapidly overtaking the pepper. But she thought he looked rested, even relaxed, so assumed his holiday had been a good one.
She was about to put a stop to that.
“You’ve been informed of her murder?” Eve began.
“As she was a prominent criminal defense attorney, one this department has butted heads with regularly—and one who courted the media—I was informed of the nine-one-one, and your status as primary. What do I need to know now?”
“Bastwick’s body was discovered by her administrative assistant, Cecil Haversham, at approximately nine hundred hours, when he, concerned with her missing scheduled meetings, let himself into her apartment. Haversham had her codes, as part of his duties. We will verify his alibi for TOD, but he is not a suspect at this time. The victim was strangled, most likely with a garrote, no overt signs of struggle or sexual assault. TOD was eighteen-thirty-three yesterday. Security cams show an individual entering her building in the guise of a delivery person, using said delivery to block his or her face from the cameras.”
“Which indicates knowledge of said cameras, and the building.”
“Yes, sir. She opened the door to said individual. Cams got him reaching into his right pocket as she stepped back to admit him. He left, with the delivery, about twenty-five minutes after entering the vic’s apartment.”
“Quick work.”
“In and out of the building in under thirty, yes, sir.”
He leaned back. “Pro?”
“Clean as one, for the most part. But that isn’t highest probability at this time. The sweepers are currently processing the scene, and the body has been transported to the morgue. I requested Chief ME Morris.”
“Naturally.” Whitney spread his big hands. “And while there will be some media attention given the victim’s predilection for appealing to same on behalf of her clients, there’s nothing in your report that warrants this break of habit. You don’t come to me as a rule, Dallas, unless summoned. What do I need to know now?”
“May I use your screen, Commander?”
He gestured to it.
It took Eve a moment—Christ, she hated electronics more than half the time—but she managed to find the disc insert, cue it up, turn it on.
The screen filled with the message written on the wall above the body.
“When did you last see or speak with the victim?”
“At Jess Barrow’s failed appeal. About a year back. I haven’t had any cases since then that involved her. We got in each other’s faces at that time—some. More during the investigation of Barrow and the investigation of her partner’s—Fitzhugh’s—murder. Cop and defense attorney, nothing more, nothing less. I didn’t like her—as a person or as a lawyer—but I don’t like a lot of people.”
“Did you ever express the wish that she was dead?”
“Commander—”
“However casually, Lieutenant.” His gaze, leveled on hers, clearly said: No bullshit. “In the heat of the moment, to anyone?”
“No, sir, I did not. I may have—probably did—call her any number of uncomplimentary names. The fact is, sir, we just didn’t come up against each other that much. If it comes to it, I had more of a run-in with Fitzhugh prior to his death, as we’d just crossed in court, than I’ve had with Bastwick. We’ve never had personal dealings, have never socialized, have never spoken outside the boundaries of an investigation or court. From the ease with which the killer accessed her apartment, I’d say the killer knew Bastwick much better than I do. That will change.”
“This will get out.” Whitney nodded to the screen.
“Yes, sir, it will. Even if we could keep it shut down, the killer won’t. What’s the point of going to all the trouble to write that, then not get any attention, or gratitude?”
Whitney went back, sat again. “You and I both know it would be considerably less . . . sticky, if I assigned another primary to this investigation.”
“Maybe less sticky, Commander, but I’m asking you not to do that. If the killer meant what was written, this murder was a favor to me, a punishment for disrespect. Taking me off as primary could, and I think would, be seen as more disrespect. This individual thinks he knows me, and he doesn’t. That gives me an advantage.”
Dispassionate, Eve reminded herself.
“Peabody is coordinating all correspondence sent to me through Central, and considering the exposure from the Icove investigation, book, and vid, through the Hollywood people. We’re going to request Dr. Mira assign a behaviorist to analyze said correspondence if she doesn’t have time to analyze it all herself. It’s likely the killer has attempted to contact me prior to this, most likely more than once.
“As I already have some working knowledge of the victim’s firm due to the previous homicide, it gives me a leg up there.”
Lay it out, she told herself. Quick and logical.
“Two homicides in one law firm defies considerable odds, and the killer’s knowledge of the victim’s building, exactly where the cameras were, exactly where her apartment was situated—and he knew she was home, home and alone, or he wouldn’t have struck at that time—indicates inside knowledge or considerable research.”
“It’s your name on the wall, Dallas.”
“Yes, sir, it is. He wants my attention, Commander, or he wouldn’t have left anything, much less a written note. I want to give it to him. By doing so, it’s possible he may try to contact me again.
“It’s impossible to say this isn’t personal on some level—my name’s on the wall. But I hope you can take my word that won’t get in my way.”
Steepling his hands, Whitney tapped his fingers together, studied Eve over them. “If I were to reassign this, which cop in your division would you recommend as primary?”
It was a kick in the gut, but she stood, answered with truth. “There’s no cop in my division I wouldn’t recommend. Every one of them would pursue this investigation thoroughly, diligently, and work until they’d closed the case.”
“That’s the right answer. You’re going to keep that in mind, as am I. I’ll speak with Chief Tibble. You will speak with Kyung on exactly how to handle the media shitstorm when it hits, because it will. I expect you to keep your word, Lieutenant. If it gets in your way, you say it, and you step back.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get to work.”
“Thank you, Commander.”
She struggled not to feel too much relief as she left the office.
Dispassionate, she told herself again. Just another case.
But that was bullshit because . . . it was always bullshit. It was never just another case.
She headed straight down to Homicide, ignoring the low-grade headache in the back of her skull. When she stepped into her division she took just a moment, evaluated.
She had spoken complete truth.
Any one of them. Every one of them, from Jenkinson slurping bad coffee while scowling at his desk screen, to Baxter, his glossy, expensive shoes propped on his desk as he talked on his ’link. Carmichael and Santiago, heads together at her desk, arguing in undertones.
They still had the holiday decorations up, the ridiculous and scrawny tree, the odd assembly of symbolism from Kwanzaa corn to the dented menorah to the creepily amusing zombie Santa.
And the sign that hung now—and as far as she was concerned would always hang—over the break-room door.
NO MATTER YOUR RACE, CREED, SEXUAL ORIENTATION OR POLITICAL AFFILIATION, WE PROTECT AND SERVE. BECAUSE YOU COULD GET DEAD.
That’s just the way it was, she thought as Reineke came out of the break room with more bad coffee.
She went back to her office, where she had really good coffee. She considered, as she never had, that she could install Roarke’s real and excellent blend in the break room. But then she rejected the notion as temporarily sentimental.
You just didn’t go around breaking tradition of bad cop break-room coffee because you felt good about having good cops under your command.
Besides, they’d lose the fun of sneaking in and stealing it from her AutoChef. Who was she to spoil their good time?
So she took off her coat, programmed her really good coffee, and sat to start her murder book and board.
Her vic deserved the routine, the procedure—and she’d work better when that routine and procedure were in place.
Once they were, she and Peabody would start the interviews at the law offices, connect with Morris at the morgue. She’d personally hound the sweepers and the lab.
And she’d carve out enough time, sometime, to follow orders and connect with Kyung.
Nadine, she thought, rubbing absently at the back of her neck. Nadine Furst—ace on-air reporter, and the best-selling writer of The Icove Agenda. She’d need to talk to Nadine.
If someone did their research—and Eve was confident the killer had—they’d know she and Nadine were personal friends. They might see Nadine as a conduit—the public figure, the on-air personality, and fierce reporter as an avenue to the cop.
In any case, when the lid tipped a fraction loose on the details at the crime scene, Nadine Furst would scent out the story like a cat scented a mouse.
Smarter to bring her in first.
Even as she considered the best approach, Eve heard the click of heels on their way to her office. Thinking Nadine, she started to get up, cover her murder board.
Mira walked in.
It wasn’t usual for Mira to come to her, or to walk into Eve’s office and close the door behind her.
“Sit,” Mira ordered.
More surprised than annoyed, Eve gestured to her desk chair. “Take this one.”
“Sit,” Mira snapped, and deliberately took Eve’s miserably uncomfortable visitor’s chair. “You’re a smart woman,” Mira began, “an exceptional cop. As both, you know you should pass this investigation on.”
“I’m a smart woman,” Eve agreed, “and an exceptional cop. As both, I’ll be damned if I’ll pass it on because someone’s using me as an excuse to kill.”
“That makes it personal.”
&nbs
p; Eve sat, breathed. “They’re all personal,” she tossed back, and had the dignified Mira scowling. “Murder is as personal as it gets. A good cop knows how to be objective about the personal.”
“Eve.” Mira stopped, patted a hand in the air to indicate she was taking a moment.
Eve gave it to her.
Mira wore a deep brick-red rather than her more customary soft colors, but the suit was—as always—perfection. Her sable hair—color and texture—swung in a bob, her newest do, around her lovely face, made her quiet blue eyes seem just a little deeper.
Or maybe that was just annoyance, Eve considered.
Now, as if drawing herself in, Mira sat back—winced as the chair likely pinched her ass—then crossed excellent legs.
“It’s personal for the killer—to you. This person sees himself—we’ll use the male pronoun for simplicity—as your friend, more your champion. He has fantasized a relationship with you, which has only become deeper to him now that he’s killed for you. He gave you a gift. At some point he’ll expect your appreciation.”
“He’ll be disappointed.”
“And when disappointed, he will strike out.”
“If I passed it on, if I said—essentially—this one’s not worth my time and effort? What then? Wouldn’t he have to kill again, do better, find someone I’d feel more worth my time and effort?”
Mira tapped the toe of her brick-red heel. “An exceptional cop,” she muttered. “Yes, that’s possible. What is clear is you are his focus.”
“I don’t know that’s clear—I say yeah, most likely. But it’s also possible this was really about Bastwick. I need to do my job, determine that or disprove that. It seems to me the question we should be asking—profiler-wise—is, Why am I the focus? Where did this fantasy friendship come from? How do I exploit it to stop him? Help me do that.”
On a long sigh, Mira glanced toward the AutoChef.
“You want some of that tea you like? I think I have some.”
“I would, actually. I’m upset. You matter.”