Her body clock popped her awake before dawn, again.
Beside her, the sheets felt cool enough to tell her Roarke had been up, dressed, and in his office for some time.
Curled in the small of her back, Galahad slept on.
She called for lights at ten percent, rolled out, and hit the bedroom AutoChef for coffee.
Since she was up in what felt like the middle of the damn night, she might as well do something. She pulled on gym shorts, a tank and, with the coffee, took the elevator down to the gym.
She decided on a three-mile run and, drinking coffee, scrolled through the programs. She chose one set in New York called Flight or Fight.
Silence fell on Fifth Avenue under a blazing summer sun. Old flyers, takeaway cups, mangled shopping bags scuttled or fluttered along the empty streets. Display windows in the Midtown shopping mecca showed frozen-faced mannequins in sparkly dresses and sleek suits.
Or, behind shattered glass, they lay broken, naked, and some eerily splattered with blood.
She didn’t mistake the dead body half-in, half-out of a broken window as a mannequin. The blood looked fresh and plentiful and, as she jogged closer, she noted the right shoulder—or more accurately, the lack thereof.
A cop was a cop, even in a hologram workout program, so she ran over to investigate.
Urban War era? she wondered. But she saw no signs of bombing, heard no sound of street fighting, no military or paramilitary presence.
What she did see when she reached the body was what had once been a man greedily chomping on the DB’s leg.
The dead woman’s eyes snapped open. She growled. And what was snacking on her rose up from his hands and knees to shamble forward.
“Seriously?”
Eve reached for her weapon. Instead of a stunner, she held a handgun. Resisting the instinct to aim for body mass, she remembered the weirdly entertaining zombie vid she’d watched with Roarke and went for the head shot.
When he dropped, the dead, mostly devoured woman began to crawl out of the broken window. Mindless hunger glowed in her eyes.
Eve shot her between them.
And they came, shambling out of broken windows, climbing out of manholes, dragging themselves over the sidewalk.
She said, “Well, shit,” and ran.
By the time she got back upstairs, Roarke sat, the cat across his lap, a pot of coffee on the table. Out of habit, she supposed, he had the screen on mute while the stock reports flashed on.
“Why were there zombies?”
He smiled at her. “Some say it comes from a virus.”
“I figured on a three-mile run since I was up, pulled a program that fit the timing, and zombies are chowing down all over Midtown and up to the Upper West.”
“Ah, Flight or Fight, was it? And which did you choose?” he asked as she hit the pot for more coffee.
“Both. Zombie doorman over on Fiftieth nearly had me, but I mostly decapitated him with the revolving doors. I just wanted a run.”
“You could’ve ended the program, picked another.”
“That’s like quitting. Anyway, I worked up a sweat. I’m grabbing a shower.”
As she went, Roarke scratched Galahad between the ears. “She had more fun than she’ll admit.”
When she came out, the cat sprawled across the bed and Roarke had breakfast under warming domes.
“So, what planet did you buy while I was fighting zombies?”
“Actually, this morning dealt with fine-tuning some projects in the South Pacific.”
He removed the warmers to reveal golden omelets, flaky croissants, and some sort of little parfait topped with peaches.
“However, this afternoon, you might be interested to know, I’ll be looking at some design options for the venue area of your building.”
She knew she’d find spinach inside the omelet, but when she cut into it, she also discovered ham and cheese. “It’s not my building just because you slapped my name on the deed.”
He topped off both their coffees. “Darling Eve, your name on the deed is exactly what makes it your building. I can also tell you Stone, the justly reviled tenant, has decided to relocate both his club and his living quarters to Jersey City.”
“Yeah? Well, bad luck to him. Asshole. Speaking of someone else, who wasn’t an asshole but connected to a previous case, the guy who does the metal sculptures. Where Eliza Lane stole the cyanide.”
“All right, yes.”
“Peabody went goofy over this lamp he had. Since I got a look at her part of the house, yeah, I can see it. Still, you’re more up on what she’s doing and where and all that. If I had him send you a picture of it, or one like it, maybe you could see if it’d work somewhere in her new place.”
“I could, yes.”
“Solid.” She shoveled in eggs. “Then there’s this garden sculpture deal Peabody said Mavis would go goofy over and, yeah, she would. Lane commissioned him to make it so she could steal the cyanide. He’s probably finished it by now, or maybe he scrapped it considering. Anyway, we’ve got to get them stuff, right? When they finish the new place, you’ve got to give them stuff.”
“Housewarming gifts, yes. And listen to you, thinking ahead to appropriate gifts.”
“It’s not thinking ahead so much as not having to think. And it’s definitely not browsing,” she added, thinking of her conversation with Peabody.
“Browsing?”
“You probably had to be there.”
Steam poured out when she broke open her croissant. She slathered it with butter that melted on contact.
“All right then. Have him send me the images. I expect if Peabody thought they’d work, they will.”
“Good, then it’s done and no thinking or browsing. Better yet, no shopping. I’ve got to spend the day thinking about wrong cops and the people who love or loved them. Because that’s what it’s going to be. Maybe I’ll hit Mira up for a consult, see if she leans there.
“Greenleaf’s memorial’s tomorrow.” “Will you attend?”
She shrugged, ate. “Depends on where we are. Paying respects matters, but—”
“Finding his killer matters more.”
“It does. The suicide matters,” she added as she ate. “Not just killing him, but staging it as suicide. To cover, or to spread more pain? I think I’ll talk to Mira, fit that in somewhere today.”
“Isn’t death enough pain?”
Shaking her head, she sampled the parfait and wondered if the peaches came from their own trees out in the back.
Either way, tasty.
“Your loved one’s murdered, there’s shock and grief. There are maybe ifs and whys. Suicide’s a different kind of pain. He left me, he chose this. Why didn’t I see he was in crisis? So is this a strike at the wife, the family, too? Maybe. Or it’s a mirror.”
He lifted a brow as he topped off their coffee. “Ah.”
“Yeah. Payback for the loss of someone who committed suicide, someone Greenleaf—in the killer’s mind—drove to it. Someone who left his or her family with that different kind of pain and grief. Any way you look at it, it’s going to matter.”
She pushed up. “I’ve got to get dressed. The zombies took me longer than the thirty.”
“Zombies have no respect for schedules.”
Who could argue? she thought as she moved into her closet. And she’d damn well get her own clothes together for the day.
She grabbed khaki trousers—sort of the opposite of black—then a navy jacket because summer, lightweight. A sleeveless white shirt seemed just fine.
She had navy boots sitting right there, so why not?
She waffled over the belt—brown or navy—then spotted a navy one with thin brown leather woven through.
She dressed quickly—don’t give him a chance!—and came out carrying the jacket.
As she strapped on her weapon harness, she glanced over at him. “Okay, what?”
“I was just thinking how fresh and professional you look.” She grabbed her badge, her ’link. “Is that a flick?”
“Not at all. In fact, looking at you, a bad guy might think: Ah well, she’ll be easy to take down, won’t she then? And won’t he be surprised when he’s splayed out at your feet bleeding from the ears?”
She had to grin, then swiped a finger down herself. “This says all that?” “To me it does.” He rose to draw her into his arms. “I’ve a packed one
today, but you’ll let me know if there’s some finances that need looking into. A man wants his entertainment.”
“I can do that.” And kissed him. “The club venue design deal? Maybe something Mavis or Avenue A would play in.”
He kissed her. “We’ll keep that in mind. See you take care of my fresh and professional cop.”
“Top of the list.”
On the way into Central, she texted Feeney to request McNab for another day. Cutting down names of potentials also hit top of the list. She considered texting Mira directly about a consult, then decided not to rile the dragon admin. She’d go through channels.
Keep working backward chronologically, she told herself. But focus on the suicides. Maybe the wrong angle, maybe, but they had to be weighed and/or eliminated, so start there.
She’d take the suicides, divide the family connections who’d taken that route when their cop was dismissed or incarcerated.
Start filtering. The cop—if alive—had connections in New York. If incarcerated, someone connected managed to gain access to the Greenleafs. If previously incarcerated, the cop settled back in the city, or had those connections.
If dead, same deal.
But suicide played a part in the whole. Probably.
She ran it, ran it, ran it, different angles, more theories as she fought morning traffic.
When she pulled into the garage, she’d worked out a general plan for the day.
She spotted him as she got out of the car. He’d obviously stood behind one of the pillars, waiting.
No cheap suit this time. Trousers, a black shirt. Add unshaven and unkempt, and a look in his eyes that said he’d found a bottle or two to spend the night with.
“Lansing, you’re only making it worse.”
“Worse for you without your bullpen of assholes around you.” “Do you really think going for me is helping the captain?”
“I put you down, somebody else takes over. You’ve got Webster fooled, you may have Whitney fooled. But I know what you are.”
She gestured up. “Garage cams, Lansing. My own recorder, again. Don’t be an idiot. Walk away.”
“I’ll take my chances. Somebody like you has a badge and I don’t?
That’s bullshit.”
She set as he started toward her. And they both heard the car pull in and squeal to an abrupt stop.
Baxter piled out of his ride. “What the fuck, Lansing?” “Stay out of it, Baxter,” Eve snapped out.
“Dallas.”
“That’s an order.”
“He doesn’t bother me. Fancy suit, fancy ride.” Lansing’s lip curled. “Just another one of your assholes. I can take you both.”
When he got close enough, she smelled the boozy breath and figured he actually thought he could.
She let him take the first shot, and supposed he considered the solid backhand to the face an insult.
She tasted blood.
“Not just off the job,” she said as she blocked the next blow. “That’s going to put you in a cage.”
“I don’t fucking think so.”
She didn’t use the back of her hand, but her fist. He staggered back, then came in hard.
Even drunk and out of control, he landed a few. More than. When his fist connected with her left breast, the pain radiated straight through her.
Riding it, she spun into a back kick that knocked him back, followed with a cross jab that made her knuckles sting, then just swept his legs out from under him and put him on his ass.
“Stay down!”
As she reached back for her restraints, he pulled a clutch piece out of an ankle holster. The stream went wide, missed her, and hit the oncoming Baxter.
“Goddamn it!” She kicked the stunner out of his hand, yanked out her own. “You hit? Baxter, are you hit?”
“Yeah, but no.” Baxter planted a foot on the loose stunner, then opened his suit jacket as Eve slapped the cuffs on Lansing. “Magic lining. Let’s hear it for Thin Shield. Goddamn it, Dallas, he fucking used a weapon on a fellow officer.”
“He’s not an officer. He’s a drunk, shit-for-brains asshole. And you’re under arrest for assaulting an officer, for possession of a concealed weapon, for using same on an officer.”
“Fuck you, fuck you both.”
“Yeah, well, you’re the one who’s fucked. Baxter, do me a solid. Park that fancy ride of yours and take shit-for-brains up to Booking.”
“Sure. Your lip’s bleeding, LT, and you’ve got blood on your shirt.” “Shit. Shit. Shit!”
“I’ve got a stain stick in my field kit. I can get it for you.”
“No, just take this fuckhead off my hands. And contact EDD, have them scoop up the security feed. Ask them to pick up my recorder. I need to talk to people.”
“Okay. You took a solid hit, you know.” He gestured to her breast.
“I’m aware. Park and deal. And you,” she said as Baxter jogged to his car. “You have the right to remain silent.”
After she read out the Revised Miranda, she left him to Baxter. Mira’s office first, she thought, for multiple reasons now.
“Lip’s bleeding,” some helpful uniform told her in the elevator.
She might’ve snarled, but her mouth already stung like wasps had held a playdate on it.
The admin was just setting up for the day. Eve thought: Give me any shit right now, be sorry for it.
Before she could speak, the admin’s eyes widened.
“Lieutenant! You’re hurt. What happened? Let me get you an ice pack.
Do you need medical assistance?”
“I need a consult with Dr. Mira, as soon as possible.”
“She’ll be in any moment. Please, sit down. You’re bleeding.” “I’m fine. Just give me a time, and I’ll make it work.”
They both heard the quick click of heels. Mira swept in, wearing a pale pink dress and matching hip-swinging jacket.
“Good morning. I— Oh God, Eve! What happened?”
“Lansing, in the garage, I need to speak with you about that and about my current investigation.”
“Come in, sit down. Hold my calls. Where is Lansing?” she demanded as she steered Eve into her office.
“Baxter’s taking him to Booking. He’s not right, just not right. He’d been drinking on top of it.”
“Sit down. I mean it.” As she spoke she strode to a cabinet, took out medical supplies. With a quick snap, she activated a cold pack. “Hold this on your jaw while I wand that lip.”
“Here’s better.” Eve pressed the pack to her breast. “Bastard punched me in the tit. Damn!”
“I know,” Mira murmured as she used the wand. “It’s going to sting at first. Just breathe.”
“Breathing. It’s not about Greenleaf with him. It may have started there, but he’s got some bug up his ass about me, particularly. Doesn’t matter, he’s going away for a while. He had a clutch piece and he shot a stream that hit Baxter. Had his piece on full. Son of a bitch wanted to do serious damage.”
“Dear God. Is Detective Baxter injured?”
“No. He was wearing the thing—the magic lining.” “Ah, Thin Shield. Well, we all owe Roarke.”
“Lansing’s rep’s going to do what he can—that’s what reps are for. He would’ve appealed the termination, but that’s off the table now. They’ll call for a psych eval.”
“Of course. I’ll take that myself.”
Relieved, Eve closed her eyes. “Good. Okay. That’s enough with the wand, isn’t it?”
“There. For now. It’s going to be sore, and it’s still a bit swollen, but the wound’s closed. Bruising’s coming up on your jaw, and the swelling there. Keep breathing.”
“I never saw the fucker until yesterday. Anyway, I’ll report all this to Whitney, but I need to consult with you on the Greenleaf investigation.”
“Yes. I was so sorry to hear about his death.” “Did you know him?”
“I did. He was a dedicated public servant. He had a hard, firm line, and not all agree with how and where he drew it.”
“Did you?”
“I respected his integrity and, when he felt it necessary to seek my advice, he respected mine. Use the pack on the jaw now, and let me see your breast.”
“It’s fine. Not the first time I’ve taken a hit there.”
Mira’s soft blue eyes could go very steely. “Have you forgotten I’m also a medical doctor? Let me see your other injuries and I won’t have to call for MTs.”
“Fine, fine.” Eve started to unbutton the shirt, winced as her knuckles ached.
“We’ll deal with your hands in a minute. I’m going to be very unprofessional and say I’m glad to see the state of your knuckles. It means you got plenty of hits in.”
Struggling against embarrassment, Eve shut her eyes. “I think I dislocated his jaw. Spin kick. It was a good one. Definitely busted his nose.”
“You’ve got considerable bruising here. I’m going to wand your breast. It’s going to hurt a little, but then ease. You’ll want to re-treat it every three to four hours.”
“Okay. I’m going to talk about the case. I’ll send you what I’ve got, but I’m hung up on the suicide ploy. Man! Jesus! Shit!”
It hurt. It fucking hurt. “Keep breathing.” “Right. Let me explain.”
She ran it through while Mira wanded, while the pain eased to a pulsing, rotted tooth kind of ache.
“I’ve run into him a handful of times in the last year or two,” Mira said as she worked. “I certainly saw no signs of suicidal tendencies. Anyone who knew him would have known he wasn’t a man to take that route.”
“They thought they could pull it off. I think the window was a mistake, or they just couldn’t get it locked before Webster came in. But killing him wasn’t retribution enough.”
“Smear his standing, further devastate his family. I want to review everything, but— There now, that’s enough for this round.”
“Thanks. It’s better.”
Rising, Mira walked back to the cabinet. This time she came back with a stain stick. “Let’s see what I can do about that shirt.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Eve began.
“Don’t be silly.” Kneeling, she began to work out bloodstains while Eve stared at her, perplexed.
“But,” Mira continued, “from your oral report, my first impression is the suicide ties in. I’ll review, as I said, but at this point I’d suggest you look for someone who’s connected—and emotionally connected—to a police officer Captain Greenleaf investigated. One who was relieved from duty, perhaps charged with a crime. But certainly one whose career in the NYPSD ended due to Greenleaf’s findings.
“I’m getting most of it out,” she muttered. “This former officer took his or her own life.”
“I was leaning there. But wonder if the IAB conclusions and consequences led someone connected—a spouse, a child—to self- terminate.”
“If so, I’d expect the killer to go after, or to have gone after, the spouse or a child. The captain would have come later, after he’d suffered that loss.”
“Okay.” She could see that. “Okay.”
“It’s a vendetta. Murdered with a service weapon, in his own home, leaving him—or planning to—for his spouse to find. Look for that in his case files.”
“All right. I’ll filter out the rest, for now, and focus there.”
“Proper attention will get the rest of the bloodstains out. A few stubborn ones, but they’re barely noticeable.”
“Summerset’ll notice. Trust me.”
Looking up now, Mira smiled. “You’ve had a hard landing home.” “It’s the job. I appreciate the help. All of it.”
“You send me your data and I’ll be sending you reminders to rewand, and wand anywhere you didn’t tell me you’re hurt.”
Getting to her feet, Mira smoothed down the skirt of her pretty pink dress. “You could use a blocker.”
“Yeah, probably. The neighbors. I’ve already run them. Nothing pops.
And no family connection with anyone on the list—so far anyway.”
With a smile, Mira laid a cool hand against Eve’s swollen jaw. “Family’s where you make it, isn’t it? Take that blocker.”
Family’s where you make it, Eve thought as she headed up to Homicide.
She knew that better than most. Maybe better than any.
So she’d push on the suicide mirror, then work the connections.
But first, she had to ask for a meeting with Whitney, and she needed to get a spare recorder so she could turn hers over to EDD.
When she walked into Homicide, Jenkinson and his tie du jour—a supernova scattering fiery space debris over electric-blue space—lurched to his feet.
“Jesus, Jenkinson, I’ve got a fat lip and an aching jaw, now you want to burn my retinas?”
“Baxter said that fucking fuckhead fuck punched you in the tit. That he fucking aimed for it.”
“Christ.” She muttered it as she instinctively crossed her arms over her chest. “He got worse.”
“Fucking A. Tossed a fucking stream at Baxter.”
“All good,” Baxter said from his desk. “I got the magic. Lansing’s in a cage, LT, and crying lawyer.”
“Fucking coward” was Jenkinson’s opinion. “And Whitney’s in your office.”
“Great. Terrific. Peabody, come in when the commander’s done.” “I will. Are you okay?”
“I haven’t been in my office and I’ve been punched in the face, in the fucking tit. I’ve been wanded and cold-packed, and now I have to go over it all with the commander before I can do my damn job. I’ve been better.”
In her office, Whitney stood at her skinny window, his hands clasped behind his back. He turned, took a long look.
“Sit.”
“Sir, please take the desk chair.”
“I said sit.” And he jabbed a finger at the desk chair. She sat.
He held up his PPC. “I’ve just reviewed the security footage from the garage.”
“Yes, sir. I need to turn my lapel recorder over to EDD.” He simply held out a hand.
Eve removed the recorder, handed it to him. “You tried to talk him down.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When Detective Baxter arrived, you ordered him to stand back.”
“Yes, sir. I didn’t see a weapon on Lansing, but I couldn’t be sure he didn’t have a clutch piece, which proved to be the case. I felt he wouldn’t use a weapon on me, not at that time. He wanted to use his hands.”
“Which you let him do. You let him take that first swing.”
“Commander, I could have drawn my own weapon and restrained him, but until he took that swing, it was talk. If I’d used aggressive tactics, I’d have no chance to de-escalate the situation. I pointed out that the garage security recorder, my own recorder was engaged. Baxter stood as a witness. And still he took the swing.”
“I’m getting coffee, for both of us.” He turned to her AC. “He’d been drinking.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And he laid in wait.”
“It appears so, sir. Commander. Thank you,” she said when he passed her coffee. “Commander, Lansing clearly has a personal issue with me. I don’t know what it is or why it is. It could be it just started yesterday when he assumed I’d shut down the Greenleaf investigation as suicide. And now he blames me for the loss of his badge. Whatever his issue, he’s lost all control. It didn’t matter to him that he’d pay a price for assaulting me—that it would clearly be recorded and witnessed as same. What mattered was paying me back.”
She sipped coffee, winced as the heat made her lip throb. But it was worth it.
“Dr. Mira intends to do his psych eval personally.” “You spoke with Mira about this?”
“I needed to consult with her on an aspect of the Greenleaf investigation. I’d obviously been in an altercation. And frankly, sir, I felt it best to inform her of the Lansing situation.”
He took his coffee, stood at her skinny window again. “I can’t disagree. I intended to go straight there after speaking with you. Saved me a trip.”
He turned back again. “You did everything right, just as you did yesterday with Lansing. I think you should and could have dodged that backhand. That’s a choice you made, one that will make it easier to get him the help, and the punishment, he very obviously needs.
“I intend to speak to IAB this morning. However, my information is no one else there has any issues with you or with your investigation. If I perceive otherwise, I’ll deal with it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m taking this mug with me. I’ll get it back to you.” “No problem.”
“When cops go wrong, it hurts all of us. Ice that jaw,” he added, and went out.
Eve sat back, shut her eyes.
One minute, she thought. Just one minute of quiet—or as quiet as it got when her head still rang and everything throbbed.
Then she heard Peabody’s clump, and sat up.
