by J. D. Robb
She waved wildly at the woman who came out of a building directly across the street. She, too, wore a tracksuit. In powder blue.
“Nita doesn’t miss a trick,” the other woman said out of the corner of her mouth. “You ask her about them.”
“Getting yourself arrested?” Nita said cheerfully when she joined them. “Better lock her up tight, Officer. Sal’s a slippery one.”
“We’ll talk about slippery later,” Sal told her. “They’re asking about the Dukes. Two doors down from you.”
“They went on a trip a couple days ago. Loaded up the car with suitcases. Wife wasn’t too happy about it, if you ask me. She’d been crying. That would’ve been . . . let me think. Wednesday. Wednesday morning, bright and early. I was out front watering my pots when I saw them loading up.”
“Did you notice anyone visiting them prior to that?”
“Saw you,” Nita said with a grin. “The morning before. Got the commandant pretty stirred up from what I saw on-screen later.”
“Nita.”
“Oh, stop fussing, Sal. I didn’t like the man and I’m not afraid to say so out loud.”
She waved a hand and settled herself in as if for a nice, friendly chat. “I had an old cocker spaniel, old Frankie. Died last year. A few months before I was out walking him like I did every day, twice a day. Stopped in front of the Dukes place for a minute to talk to a neighbor who was out walking, too. And well, old Frankie did his business there on the edge of their property while I wasn’t watching.”
She sighed, one long expulsion of air. “Old Frankie. Now I’d’ve cleaned it up. I cleaned up behind that dog for sixteen years. But the commandant comes to the door and gives me what-for, says he’s going to report me. Carries on so you’d think he’d never seen a little poop before. Well, I gave him what-for right back. I don’t take that kind of thing from anybody.”
She huffed out a breath, obviously still outraged. “He slams the door, I pick up the poop, finish walking old Frankie, and go home. Few minutes later, the beat cop’s at my door. Young woman, looked mortified, told me Dukes had called in a complaint. Can you imagine that? Since I’d already flushed away the evidence, nothing came of it. The cop just wanted to let me know he was seeing red, said she’d cooled him off, but maybe it would be best all around if I made sure to keep the dog away from his property.”
“Is that the only dealing you had with him?”
“Never spoke another word to the man, nor he to me.”
“They lost a child,” Sal reminded her. “It can sour a person.”
“Some are born sour.” Nita nodded to the house across the street. “I’d say that man was.”
Eve conducted the first three interviews on Greene’s list in the privacy of each subject’s home or office. In each case there were varying degrees of denial, outrage, embarrassment, and pleading.
And in the case of Judge Vera Archer, a cold acceptance.
“I’d prefer to continue this discussion without the presence of your uniform, Lieutenant Dallas.”
“Peabody, wait outside.”
Archer folded her hands on her desk. Her chambers was a streamlined, organized space that suited her image. She was a tall, sternly attractive, rail-thin woman of sixty-three, with short, straight dark hair. She had a reputation for delivering swift and thorough decisions that rarely failed to hold up on appeal.
She brooked no theatrics in her courtroom.
Apparently, Eve thought, she enjoyed them in private. On disc she’d worn a pink ballgown, and had performed a rather glamorous striptease—down to g-string and pasties—for two well-muscled men as a prelude to a very athletic ménage à trois.
“I assumed I’d be dealing with this when I heard Nick Greene had been killed. My private life isn’t up for discussion. No laws were broken by me, other than those of common sense.”
“Yet you paid Nick Greene seventy-five hundred dollars a month.”
“I did. It’s not illegal to pay such a fee. And if we determine it as blackmail, the crime was his in extorting such a fee. I’m not going to explain the contents of the disc, nor the motivation behind those contents. I’m entitled to my privacy.”
“Yes, Your Honor, and you certainly paid enough for it. However, the contents of that disc, and your payments, are now part of a homicide investigation.”
Archer’s gaze never wavered. “I was better off with him alive. I could afford the money a great deal more than I can afford the publicity from exposure. The embarrassment to my robes, my husband. I made full disclosure of this matter to my husband nearly a year ago. You can verify that if you deem it necessary, but it is, again, a private matter. I will tell you we agreed to continue the payments.”
“You’re aware of the circumstances of Nick Greene’s death?”
“I am.”
“While I sympathize with your desire for privacy, Your Honor, that sympathy doesn’t extend over my pursuit of the terrorists who are responsible for his death, and the death of six others to date.”
“And how will exposing the contents of that disc aid your pursuit? I must have the respect of my courtroom when I’m on the bench. You pursue, you arrest, but then it’s up to the courts to complete the cycle of justice. How can I do that if I’m a laughingstock, an embarrassment?”
“I’ll do whatever I can to protect your privacy. Tell me how you came to use Nick Greene’s services.”
Archer rolled her lips inward into a nearly invisible line. “I’d heard about him through an acquaintance. It seemed harmless, and though his services were admittedly borderline, I made use of them. A release valve, you could say, from the pressures of the job. I made use of them once a month for several months. Then he gave me a copy of the disc, explained the payment schedule and the consequences of nonpayment. All very reasonable and businesslike.”
“You must have been very angry.”
“I was angry. More, I felt like a fool. A woman who’s lived for more than sixty years, sat on a bench for fourteen, shouldn’t be so easily duped. I paid, because one always pays for foolishness, and I stopped using his services.”
“Were you afraid he would expose you anyway?”
She angled her head in mock surprise. “And cut off a small but steady income? No.”
“Did he ever up the payments or threaten to do so?”
“No. In his way, he was a good businessman. If you bleed too fast and hard, you eviscerate.”
Archer lifted her hands, the only excess motion she’d made throughout the interview. “I didn’t even resent the payments. They reminded me I was human. Which is why I used his services to begin with. I needed to be reminded I was human. You’ve done a background on me. Personal, professional?”
“Yes, Your Honor, an initial run.”
“I’ve served the law, and served it well. My record bears that out. I’m not ready to retire.” She glanced over at the small viewing screen on her wall. “I saw the broadcast on 75 this morning. It was a vicious, horrible death they chose for him. He was a blackmailer, and he peddled in what could be called sin, certainly exploited people’s secret weaknesses. But he didn’t deserve to die as he did. Nor did that child.”
She looked at Eve again, her gaze direct and level. “You suspect that I may be a part of these vigilantes calling themselves pure? They stand for everything I abhor, Lieutenant. Everything I’ve dedicated my life to fighting against. They’re bullies and cowards playing God. I’m willing to waive legal representation at this time and submit to a Truth Test. My conditions are that this be done privately, by a single authorized and licensed technician, and that when the results clear me of suspicion, they, as well as the disc and any files pertaining to me in this matter, are sealed.”
“I’ll agree to those conditions and will arrange it. I can ask Dr. Mira to do the Testing personally.”
“Dr. Mira is acceptable.”
“I believe the results will put an end to your involvement in this matter, Your Honor.”
&nbs
p; “Thank you.”
“Can I ask your advice and opinion on another matter connected to my investigation?”
“Yes.”
“I have requested warrants to open sealed files on juvenile victims that directly pertain to this case. Child Services filed a TRO blocking me from these records and from additional records of their agency. The prosecutor’s office engaged in the standard legal wrangle over this. The block remains.”
“Sealeds, particularly in the case of minors, are sensitive issues.”
“So is serial homicide. So is terrorism. So is obstructing a priority investigation. Time is of the essence, yet an essential tool is being held out of my reach. This isn’t a matter of opening sealeds to the public, but to an investigator with probable cause. If this matter was before you, how would you rule?”
Archer leaned back. “Is your probable cause solid, Lieutenant—and don’t jive with me.”
“It’s rock solid. The TRO argues that the sealeds must remain to protect the minors and their families from further distress, to ensure their privacy. The P.A. argues that probable cause in a homicide investigation supersedes, and further argues that the contents of the sealeds will be known only to the investigative team.”
“If the arguments are as basic as that, you’d have your warrants in my court. Who signed the initial warrants?”
“Judge Matthews?”
“And he’s subsequently held the sealeds?”
“No, Your Honor. The arguments are being presented to Judge Lincoln.”
“Lincoln. I see. I’ll make a few inquiries.”
Eve left the courthouse with Peabody beside her and took a moment in the air. “If she’s not clean, I’ve lost all sense of direction.”
“Do we keep working down the list?”
“Yeah, we keep working it. Meanwhile, do a run on Judge Lincoln.”
“Another judge? Jeez.”
“He’s not on Greene’s. But he’s on Archer’s. She’s good,” Eve said as she got into her vehicle. “But she’s not that good. I saw something on her face when I told her he was hearing the arguments over the sealeds.”
Frowning, she pulled out her beeping pocket ’link. “Dallas.”
“O’Malley’s,” Dwier said briskly. “Twenty minutes. Come alone.”
“The Blue Squirrel,” Eve returned, wanting home field advantage. “Fifteen.”
She broke transmission.
Chapter 20
Eve didn’t frequent the Blue Squirrel as often as she once had. It was a joint with no redeeming qualities, including the food and service. During the day, it catered to a handful of surly regulars and the occasional lost soul who was foolish enough to think he might scope out a cheap meal and a little action.
At night it was usually jammed with people who made the action and were tough enough or crazy enough to risk their lives for what passed for alcohol in such places.
The music was loud, the tables small and rarely clean, and the air generally permeated with bad booze and stale Zoner.
Eve had an odd affection for it, and was pleased to find it hadn’t changed since her last visit.
For a time Mavis had been one of the featured performers, whirling in costumes that defied description and screeching out her music to a packed dance floor where people actually seemed to understand it.
Thinking of Mavis, Eve wondered if impending motherhood would tone her down.
Not a chance.
“Grab a table opposite side,” Eve ordered Peabody. “Eat if you dare.”
“Their soy fries are only half-bad. I’ll risk it.”
Eve chose a table in the far corner, slid in. And decided Peabody was right. The fries were only half-bad, and deserved another chance.
She keyed in an order on the menu, and decided not to dance any closer to the edge by risking the coffee. She opted for bottled water, which she feared was bottled in one of the seamy back rooms by flat-nosed men with hairy knuckles.
Seeing no sign of Dwier, she pulled out her communicator and checked in with Feeney. “What’s the status?”
“Nearly there.” There was a faint sheen of sweat on his brow and his hair was sticking out in tufts. “Two hours, we’ll nail it. What’re you working on?”
“In a couple of minutes, lunch. Blue Squirrel.”
“You walk on the dark side, Dallas.”
“Yeah, that’s me. Got a meet with Dwier. He should be coming along shortly. I think he wants to deal.”
“I’ll give him a damn deal.” Feeney blew air out his nose. “You wanna tell me what the brass was doing here this morning?”
“Can’t. I have to wait for some information. Bugs me, Feeney, but I can’t.”
“Hooked a big fish, didn’t you, kid? No, don’t sweat it,” he said. “Just remember, some big fish got teeth.”
“I’m careful. Dwier just walked in. Later.”
She pocketed the communicator, then waited for him to come to the table.
“I said alone. Ditch the uniform or this ends now.”
“The uniform needs to eat. You want to walk, it’s your choice.” She nipped the bottle of water as it popped out of the serving slot. “Keep away from the coffee,” she said conversationally. “If you want to live.”
He dropped into the seat across from her. She wasn’t surprised when he ordered bottled brew.
“Your girlfriend tell you about our conversation yesterday?”
“You show some respect when you talk about Clarissa. She’s a lady. Your type don’t recognize a lady.”
“My type recognizes wrong cops, conspirators, killers, fanatics.” Watching his face, she took a pull of her water. “I don’t care how their skin stretches.”
“I want you off her back. I’m giving you one warning on it.”
She leaned forward. “You threatening me, Dwier? Are you intimating that if I continue to pursue the line of investigation that involves Clarissa Price, you may attempt to cause me physical harm?”
“What, are you wired?”
“No, I’m not wired. I just want to be real clear on the nature of your warning. That way, I won’t be kicking your sorry ass across this sticky floor, out the door, and across the street due to a miscommunication.”
“You think you’re some badass, don’t you? You homicide cops all think you’re so fucking important. Elite or some shit. You come out on the street and wade through the garbage awhile, you pick up the pieces of some kid who’s been raped and beat up, or drag through the puke of some asshole teenager who’s OD’d on Jazz he got from some vulture working the school yards. See how long you’re such a badass.”
She felt some sympathy, a sliver of it scraping over her for a cop who’d seen more than he could handle. But there was the line again, the line that could only be moved so far before it fell off the edge.
“Is that why you’re part of this, Dwier? Just couldn’t handle taking all the steps, seeing some of those steps bust out from under you? Is that why you decided to be judge, jury, and executioner?”
Her fries slid out, and she ignored them. His bottle popped seconds later. He snatched it up, twisted the top with the violence of a man who wished it was a human neck.
“I want you off Clarissa’s back.”
“You’re repeating yourself. Tell me something new.”
He took two deep swallows from the bottle. “I’m not saying I got anything to tell you. But if I did, I’d need a deal.”
“Can’t deal without the cards.”
“Don’t try to hose me.” He snorted at her, and she lost even that sliver of sympathy.
He wasn’t just a cop who’d broken under the pressure. He was one who’d puffed up on it and filled himself to bursting—like the thin skin of a balloon—bulging with arrogance, with righteousness.
“I’m a badge. I know how this works. If I had anything to say pertaining to the recent homicides, I’d need immunity for Clarissa and myself regarding any possible involvement.”
“Immunity.”
She leaned back, carefully selected a french fry, studied it. “You just want me to wipe your slate? Seven dead, one a cop, and you want a free ride for yourself and your lady? Just how do you expect me to pull that off for you, Dwier?”
“You’ll pull it off. You’ve got weight.”
“Let’s put it this way.” She drenched the fries with salt. They needed help desperately. “Why do you think I’d use the weight you think I have to help you skate on this?”
“You want the bust. I know your type. The bust comes first. Keep your cases-cleared percentage high. You figure they’ll pin another fucking medal on you.”
“You don’t know me.” Her voice was low and lethal. “You want a picture in your head, Dwier? How about this one? A sixteen-year-old girl, cut into ribbons, her blood all over the walls following the trail where she’d run trying to get away from a man who was driven insane by a group of people who decided he should die. Her name was Hannah Wade. She was a stupid kid with a bad attitude who ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like Kevin Halloway, a solid young cop just doing his job. How do the people pushing your buttons rate that in their list of percentages. An acceptable loss?”
“Clarissa’s sick over that girl. She’s busted to pieces over it. Didn’t sleep a wink all night.”
Eve felt bile rush into her throat, washed it back with water. “Remorse will weigh in with the prosecutor. Maybe you were misled. Maybe both of you were misled by the people in charge of Purity. You were just looking for a way to protect the kids on your watch.”
“Yeah.” He drank, keyed in the menu for a second bottle. “If that were the case, it would go toward immunity. The fact, if we did know something relevant, we were willing to give it up—voluntarily.”
You puke, she thought, her face blank as a wiped slate. “You know I can’t guarantee immunity. That decision doesn’t come from me. I can only request it.”
“You can push it. You know the buttons.”
She looked away from him a moment because knowing she’d try for the deal made her sick. The greater good, she told herself. Sometimes justice couldn’t sweep clean.