Peabody walked in with a cold pack in one hand.
“I already iced down,” Eve began, but Peabody just put the pack on Eve’s desk.
“You’re going to ice again in a few minutes. Your jaw looks pretty bad. I can’t see your left girl, but—”
Eve laid a hand over her breast. “And you’re not going to.”
“But I bet that hurts.” She held out a blocker cupped in her other hand. “I don’t want—”
Peabody, eyes hard, shoved the blocker under Eve’s face. “Jesus, Peabody, I outrank you.”
“Don’t make me tag Roarke.”
A fist in the throat would’ve been less of a jolt. “You wouldn’t dare.” “Oh, oh, I dare. I double damn dare, so take it.”
Eve snatched it, popped it, swallowed. “What are you so pissed off about?”
“What am I pissed off about? What am I pissed off about?”
Throwing her hands up, Peabody turned a circle. “He attacked you. He punched you in the face, in the boob, and for no reason. None. He was a cop, and he came after another cop. He freaking tried to stun you—missed and hit Baxter.”
“Baxter’s been busy,” Eve muttered.
“What the hell do you expect?” Eyes on fire now, Peabody slapped her hands on her hips. “What the hell do you expect? You’re the LT! He came after our LT, and he fired on one of us. If Baxter hadn’t had the magic lining, he’d be hurt, too. I tell you, if Lansing hadn’t already been in a cage,
Jenkinson would’ve gone for him, and I’d’ve been right beside him. So would the whole bullpen.”
“Which is exactly how it’s not done. I handled it. It’s handled. Maybe you need a soother before blood vessels start popping all over your face.”
“I don’t want a damn soother.” Furious, frustrated, Peabody dropped into the visitor’s chair. “Ow. Damn it!”
Eve sat back again. “Need an ass blocker?”
With a half laugh, Peabody scrubbed her hands over her face. “He attacked you, Dallas. He was waiting in the garage and he went for you, over bullshit. We’re working the case. I know how late you worked because I got your final notes of the night. McNab and I worked as late as you did— I bet Roarke, too.”
“He did.”
“And this guy comes after you—twice now? What the hell?”
“He’s not right. Whether he ever was, I can’t say, but he’s not right now. It’s handled. And now the shrinks and lawyers and courts will sort the rest out. He’ll do time—I won’t back off there, because if it’s not me, he’d find somebody else to pound on. He needs to pay the price as much as he needs the shrinks. And it’s handled. So chill it down.”
“Look, you’re my LT, my partner, and you’re my friend. I get a little cranky when someone punches you in the face.”
“So noted, and appreciated.” The red-hot fury—a little scary—had died out of Peabody’s eyes. “Are we good now?”
“Maybe if I had coffee I’d be better.”
“Then get it, because we’ve got work to do. I had a consult with Mira.” While Peabody got her coffee, Eve filled her in.
“You were already leaning there—to the suicide angle being key. This refines the angle more. I guess that’s what Mira does. Refines and clarifies.” “Killing him wasn’t enough,” Eve said. “Plenty of ways to take him out
if that’s the only goal. It’s still possible that part of the plan was just to end the investigation almost before it began. The captain took himself out, done. Or to leave the department and his family with the weight of believing he had regrets and guilt over the job he couldn’t live with.”
“But the mirror suicide rings loudest.”
“So we’re going with it. We cull suicides out of our respective lists, and focus there. Bump to the top any who used the same method. We’ll include
other means, but if we’re right on the angle, it’s going to mirror the method.”
“Most common anyway, for a cop.”
“It is. I’ve got a short list from Morris on suicide cops Greenleaf visited in the morgue over the last few years he was on the job, so there’s that.
“I’m going to check with the lab, see if they’ve had any luck IDing the murder weapon. If not, and I think not or I’d have heard, we have to start going through records.”
“What records?”
“It was police issue, not black or gray market. They’d removed the identifying number. But if a cop loses his weapon, it’s reported, it’s recorded.”
“Supposed to be,” Peabody pointed out.
“If it’s not, he’s not assigned another. If a cop retires, dies, is terminated, the weapon’s turned in, recorded. If it’s reassigned, that’s recorded. If it’s destroyed due to age or damage or malfunction, that’s recorded.”
“Right. I knew all that. So … we’re looking for the category of stunner used on Greenleaf, one reported lost or turned in. Turned in, we track it to the new assignee and verify.”
Peabody puffed out her cheeks. “That’s going to be another slog.”
“I’m going up to see Feeney and ask him if he can spare another e-geek to help with the slogs. Meanwhile, we cross-check. We’re looking at cops who used a stunner to take themselves out. That weapon would also go into evidence. Could be kept there, could be destroyed after the case closed.”
“Because maybe the killer used that same weapon to kill Greenleaf.
That’s a good one.”
“Then get started. Coordinate with McNab on it, and I’ll head up and tug someone else out of Feeney.”
Eve took the glides to EDD. Good angles, she thought. Some solid lines to pull. It was almost worth getting punched in the tit to grab that early meet with Mira.
Almost, because even with the blocker that still ached some.
The circus of EDD distracted from that. Jenkinson’s tie paled in comparison.
Wild colors, crazy patterns—and that was just the hair—dominated the space. Baggies, bibs, skin pants in crazed rainbows whirled around as those
wearing them remained in near-constant motion.
She caught a glimpse of McNab, chair dancing in his cube as he worked.
His usually sleek blond tail of hair now sported bright red streaks.
Probably in solidarity with Peabody’s, Eve decided, and didn’t bother to sigh.
She headed straight for the normality of Feeney’s office.
He wore a dependably brown suit—this one summer weight and the color of dung baked in the strong sun. His tie, shades darker, hung just a little crooked, but was currently unstained.
His wiry hair exploded, ginger and gray, about his hangdog face.
He leaned back against his desk, one foot tapping as he frowned at his wall screen.
He turned his gaze to Eve, and his basset hound eyes went hot. “That fucking shithead Lansing.”
“Word travels.”
“Homicide LT gets jumped in Central’s garage by an asshole fired off the job for being an asshole, it travels fast and far. Then he fires on Baxter? You’d better tell me he looks a lot worse than you.”
“His nose is busted, his jaw may be dislocated. His ribs have to hurt, and he won’t be using his right arm easy for a while.”
“Good. Shithead.” He looked over her left shoulder. “How’s the … ah, the, you know, the, ah, girl part?”
“God, is everybody talking about that? I’m good. Fine. Everything.” Move on, she thought. And fast. “I could use more help on searches for the Greenleaf case.”
He nodded, obviously relieved they’d tabled any discussion of Eve’s girl part. “You’ve got McNab as long as you need him. What else?”
“I’m starting a secondary search, on the murder weapon.”
As he listened to her rundown, Feeney picked up the wobbly bowl—a Sheila Feeney creation—from his desk, popped one of the candied almonds in his mouth.
“If your suicide cop got busted, they’d confiscate his weapon at the bust.” He offered Eve the bowl.
“Right.” She took an almond. “Might’ve had a drop piece—harder to trace—or he got somebody in Records or in Evidence to play along. Wrong cops know other wrong cops.”
Feeney’s face went tight and grim. “Yeah, they fucking do. The killer filed off the ID code because they didn’t want it traced.”
“Right, so it can be, and it’s unlikely when it is, it’ll connect to Greenleaf. We’re already pushing on dead or incarcerated cops, but we’re shifting focus to suicide cops. It’s a lot to run, Feeney. We’re eliminating, but it’s slow going. Adding this is going to take it down to a crawl until we hit.”
“I’ll take it. Didn’t much like Greenleaf, but he was a cop who worked and lived by a code. I’ll take it,” he repeated. “Send me what you’ve got. I’ll pull McNab into the lab, and we’ll work tandem on it.”
“I appreciate it, a hell of a lot.”
Feeney popped another almond. “He came after me once, Greenleaf.” “What? When?”
“Before your time, kid. Had to be nearly twenty years back. Bogus shit, and he cleared me, so that was that. Still didn’t like him much,” Feeney added, and popped one more almond. “But he had a code and he stuck to it. Whoever took him out’s not just a cop killer, but a coward with it. So I’ve got this.”
More than she’d expected, Eve thought as she made her way back to Homicide. With Feeney digging in, they’d push through faster and cleaner.
“Feeney’s taking it,” Eve said as she passed through the bullpen. She heard Peabody’s Oh yeah as she veered toward her office.
With fresh coffee to keep her boosted, she copied all current data to Feeney. She took another minute to study the board, homed in on the crime scene, Greenleaf’s slumped body, the angle of the stunner burns.
“Yeah, a coward,” she muttered. “Taking an unarmed man from behind.” She swiveled back, brought up her portion of the list. She’d barely begun on the next name in line when she heard someone coming toward her office.
She only thought: What now? before Webster stepped into the doorway. “Oh, Christ, Dallas. I just heard.”
“It’s done. It’s handled.”
“I knew he was … But coming at you this way, in front of another cop, in the damn garage.”
“It’s done,” she said again. “You should know if he’d gotten through me, and Baxter, he’d have come after you.”
After dragging his hand through his hair, Webster looked at Eve with exhausted eyes. “Yeah, I get that. Can I sit?”
“I’m going to update you. Give me a couple hours first. Feeney’s agreed to work on the searches, so I expect progress today.”
“Can’t ask for better than Feeney. But it’s more I want to update you. If I could have a few minutes.”
She shrugged, gestured. “You know the risks of the chair.”
“Yeah, I do.” He sat, carefully, in her visitor’s chair. “You know your budget would handle another visitor’s chair.”
“Why would I want that?”
He smiled at her, a tired, grieving man. “You know, I was crazy about you.”
“Oh hell, Webster.”
“No, no.” He waved a hand. “I was, and stupid with it. And I crossed a serious line with the stupid, got just what I deserved. And getting exactly what I deserved straightened me out in more ways than one. It’s hard to be grateful Roarke kicked the shit out of me, but I am. It set me straight, and in another direction.
“I talked to Martin about it—Beth, too. They mopped up the blood, listened, iced down my ribs and whatever. And let me know I’d crossed that line. No wiggle room on it. That’s family—they’ll mop you up, and tell you the truth. So.”
He blew out a breath. “I went over to see Martin that night because I wanted to talk something over with him. I told you that in my statement. You never asked what I wanted to talk to him about.”
“It wasn’t and isn’t relevant, and is your business.”
“True enough, but I can’t talk to him, and don’t want to give Beth any more to worry about right now. In a strange way you’re a part of why I wanted to talk to him, and I want you to hear about it from me.”
“Fine. But since it’s not relevant to the investigation, you’re eating up those few minutes.”
“It won’t go into effect until you close the investigation, my captain agreed to that. But I’ve turned in my papers.”
“What?” Genuinely stunned, she jerked up. “Why?”
“Because the woman I love and want to make a life with lives off- planet.”
“But— You only met Angelo a few months ago.”
He smiled again. “Didn’t take you long to hook up with Roarke. When you know, you know. We’ve talked about it. Her coming here—resigning as chief of the Olympus police. Me going there, resigning from the NYPSD. I’m going there, because it feels right. I wanted to talk to Martin.”
None of her business, she told herself. But … connections.
“You’re taking a huge leap, Webster. What the hell would you do there?” “I’ve thought about that, too. It’s not impulse, Dallas. Can’t be a cop, cohabbing with and eventually marrying my chief. I was leaning toward
going private—”
He only smiled at her derisive snort.
“But with what happened to Martin … I want to teach, train. I want to help teach and train good cops. After this fuckup with Lansing, I want that more. It needs to be more than how to investigate, how to handle a suspect or de-escalate a situation, how to interview. It has to be about ethics, integrity, honoring the badge. I think I’d be good at it. I want to be good at it.”
“You probably would be. It’s just … a lot.”
“A different direction, and I’ll take it with Darcia. It’s everything I want.
I wanted to tell you. Now I’ll get out of your way.”
As he rose, Eve heard heels clicking down the hall.
Chief Darcia Angelo stepped into the doorway. Her dark hair fell in long waves to her shoulders. Though she must’ve recently traveled on a space shuttle, she looked runway fresh in a form-hugging cream-colored dress and sky-high heels.
“Darcia. I didn’t expect … You came all this way.”
“Of course I came. Don.” Despite Eve’s presence, Darcia opened her arms, took him in. “I’m so sorry about Martin.”
Even as Darcia held him, Eve saw her eyes, her cop’s eyes, focus on the board.
“I went to your place first.” Turning her head, Darcia pressed her lips to Webster’s cheek. “Dropped my bag. When I checked in IAB, your captain said you’d come to talk to Dallas.”
Darcia drew away, held out a hand to Eve. “Lieutenant.” “Chief.”
“I’ll give you the room if you’re speaking confidentially. But I want to say, I’ll be in New York for a week, and am at your disposal if you can use my help in any way.”
“That’s appreciated. Webster can’t be directly involved in the investigation.”
“Of course.”
“And neither can you, considering your relationship with him.”
“Ah.” Darcia nodded, but Eve saw some professional regret as Darcia looked at the board. “Understood.”
“However, I can and will continue to keep Webster in the loop, and wouldn’t object to him sharing information with you or any insight you might have.”
“That’s generous of you. I mean that. Don, your captain said you’d be needed to complete some work before leaving for the funeral home where they’ll bring Martin later today. I’ll come to you when you’re done, then we’ll go be with your family.”
“It means everything you’d be here.”
“Where else would I be at such a time? Let me know when you’re ready, and we’ll go.”
He brought both her hands to his lips. “I won’t be long. I appreciate the time,” he said to Eve, then to Darcia: “I told her.”
“Good. I’ll wait for you. Not here,” Darcia assured Eve when Webster left. “But if I could have a moment.”
“Sure. What the hell.”
“First, can I ask what happened?” She gestured to Eve’s face. “An asshole happened. He’s sitting in a cage and looks worse.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Next. You don’t approve of our plans, of Don’s decision.”
“It’s not for me to approve or otherwise.”
“He holds you in high regard. So do I.” Darcia smiled. “Which puts you on the spot.”
“You want to know what I think. I’ll tell you. I think when it mattered, you came. And when he saw you, I saw—for the first time since this happened—the stress and grief lift off him. That won’t last, but that mattered.”
“No, it won’t last.”
She looked back at the board, and Eve saw grief.
“Martin was his father, in every way that counts. I want, very much, to help you find who took his father from him, and I understand why you can’t let me.”
“I get why he’s turning in his papers and coming to you. I don’t get why either of you live on something spinning around in space.”
“Earth’s also something spinning around in space.”
“Yeah, people keep telling me that. I think you’re both going after what you want. And why not?”
“Why not?” Darcia agreed. “I’ll leave you to your work.” But first she stepped over, touched a hand gently to the crime scene photo of the body. “He didn’t deserve this.”
No, Eve thought when Darcia left. But no one did. She’d barely gotten back to work when Peabody texted.
Ice down again.
“Who put you in charge?” Eve muttered. But she activated the cold pack and laid it on her sore jaw while she worked.
When she had three she felt warranted an interview, she walked out to the bullpen.
“Let’s go talk to people.”
“I’ve got one, I think, and McNab just sent me one,” Peabody told her. “So that makes five. Let’s have some conversations. Run yours for me.” “Lieutenant Colton Jayne. He had a network of corruption going, and
went down for it about sixteen years ago. Greenleaf headed the internal investigation. He got caught red-handed, Dallas, and the internal investigation was secondary, but he took himself out with a drop piece—he had two other cold weapons—before his trial. His wife stuck by him, claimed setup, filed suits against the department, Greenleaf, the lead investigator. Didn’t get anywhere, but she made a lot of noise. He took himself out sixteen years ago this month. And she works in IT for a company about six blocks from the crime scene.”
“Worth a conversation.”
“She was wife number two, about ten years younger. She had a kid about two when he self-terminated. She found him.
“Next, McNab gave me Marcia Lord, patrol officer. Disciplined twice for excessive force, then she broke a kid’s arm—kid got pinched shoplifting. Instead of calling for medical aid, she cuffed him—broken arm, and she cuffed him. Eleven years old. Got caught on a bystander’s cam— the kid screaming in pain, and her threatening to break his other arm if he didn’t shut up.”
“Okay,” Eve muttered as her arm twinged in memory of the bone snapping under Richard Troy’s brutal attack.
“Her father was on the job—detective in the one-four. She got his service weapon, took herself out. The father made some noise, got in Greenleaf’s face, Whitney’s face. He turned in his papers shortly after. He got a PI license, keeps an office in Alphabet City.”
Eve nodded as they took the steps to her garage level.
“Former cop, PI, you could find a way to access Greenleaf. Plug the addresses in. We’ll add mine and program for the most logical route to all five.”
“What’ve you got?”
“Oglebee, Detective Justin, Organized Crime. Turns out he worked with them more than against them. Bought himself a fancy place in the Caymans with mob money, along with a fancy boat, fancy car. Lived the high life until Greenleaf dug down. Wife had already left him, but his son, eighteen at the time, stuck. He found his father. Death ruled suicide, but a lot of questions there. Oglebee knew where a lot of the bodies were buried, may have buried some of his own. His lawyers were pushing for immunity, witness protection.”
“Mob hit?” Peabody asked as she started entering addresses.
“I’d give it fifty-fifty. The son applied to the Academy, denied. The son, Steven, is thirty-three now, works delivery for a food joint, and Greenleaf’s building’s in his area.”
“Definitely a conversation.”
Eve read off the addresses, rounded up the other two while Peabody programmed.
“Looks like we start with Lord, former Detective Eli.”
Peabody studied Eve’s profile as they streamed into traffic. “You should probably wand again.”
“A little busy now, and I don’t have a wand.”
Helpfully, Peabody pulled one out of her pocket. “I brought one along.” “I’m driving. I’ll get to it.”
“I hear Lansing’s claiming he pulled the stunner in self-defense. That you and Baxter were reaching for yours.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Jenkinson’s got his ear to the ground on it.”
“Well, it won’t fly. We weren’t, and the recordings will show that. And it’s tough to claim self-defense when he carried an illegal concealed, and attacked first.”
“You’d have been justified, stunning him.”
“And that would’ve given him some wiggle room, so I didn’t.”
“His wife left him, and claimed physical and emotional abuse in the divorce filing.”
Eve glanced over. “Do you think I didn’t look him up?”
“Oh, well, sure. Maybe you don’t know he’s been keeping a file on you since Nadine’s first book came out.”
Eve’s hands tightened on the wheel. “A file? How do you know that?” “EDD’s going through his e’s. A little bird told me they’d found a file on
you buried in them.”
“Why is it a bird? A little bird? Birds don’t tell anybody anything.”
“Parrots do. They talk. And the little parrots—the parakeets—they can talk. My cousin Uma has an African gray, and it talks up a storm.”
“That’s just creepy.” “Oh, it’s so cute!”
“Creepy,” Eve insisted. “But it gives me a big clue why Lansing has it in for me. Now he can take his file and shove it.”
It steamed her enough she pulled into a craphole, overpriced public lot rather than hunting up street parking.
She needed to walk.
“Refocus,” she ordered. “Lord. His daughter—Did he have other kids?” “No.”
“Only child, one following in his footsteps, gets the boot, faces criminal
—and no doubt civil—trials. She’s disgraced, humiliated, and for doing her job. Any disciplinary in his file?”
“No.”
“So either he worked clean, or he didn’t get caught. But his daughter doesn’t work clean, does get caught. And rather than accept the consequences, she ends it.”
Walking helped—cleared her head, lowered the steam.
New York smelled hot and busy. The first lunch rush filled sidewalk tables, crowded glide-carts so the hot and busy added soy dogs, fries, pizza, burritos, and more.
She spotted a three-card-monte grift in progress half a block down.
The operator spotted her, folded it up in a heartbeat, and jogged away.
She shrugged it off—not worth the pursuit.
Instead she paused outside of Lord’s building.
Street level had a restaurant. It must’ve been decent, as people filled every sidewalk table and the servers hustled.
She mastered in the street door with a sign for Lori’s School of Dance, Thompson Accounting, Creative Nail Artists, and Lord Investigations.
Inside, she didn’t spare the single elevator a glance, and shoved open the door to the stairwell.
They climbed to three.
It seemed John Calhoun, Attorney at Law, and Murals by Tess hadn’t rated an exterior sign.
Lord’s office had a frosted-glass door bearing his name.
Eve opened it into a small reception area with two empty chairs, a compact coffee station, and a single desk.
An attractive brunette, around thirty, sat at the desk working on a comp. She stopped work, sent Eve and Peabody a smile. “Good afternoon.”
Eve held up her badge. “We’d like to speak with Mr. Lord.” “Do you mind if I scan your identification?”
“Go ahead.”
With pretty, manicured hands, she took a scanner out of her desk drawer, verified Eve’s, then Peabody’s shields.
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, Detective. We sometimes have people using false identification in an attempt to get information on one of Mr. Lord’s clients. He’s actually with a client now, but I don’t think he’ll be much longer if you’d like to wait. Or I can make an appointment for you.”
“We can wait.”
“Please help yourself to coffee or water.”
Since she wasn’t interested in either, Eve looked around. Small, she thought, but clean and organized. A single plant with shiny green leaves speared up from a pot under a light she supposed stood in for the sun.
It looked happy enough.
“How long have you worked for Mr. Lord?”
“Almost five years now. I love it,” she said with another flash of smile. “It’s not like screen shows or vids, and I thought it would be. That seemed exciting. But it’s not like that, and it’s still really interesting. We handle all sorts of investigations. Domestic, insurance, background checks, even missing persons, and sometimes do some work for Mr. Calhoun. He’s a lawyer, on this floor.”
“So you keep busy.”
“Oh yes. Mr. Lord gets a lot of client referrals because he’s very good at what he does.”
The door behind her opened. The man who came out looked trapped between misery and fury.
“Do you need a follow-up appointment, Mr. Tibbits?” “No. No. It’s done. I’m finished.”
Domestic, Eve concluded as he walked out. Cheating spouse or cohab.
The receptionist gave his back a sympathetic look as she rose. “Just one minute,” she said to Eve, and walked into the boss’s office.
She came out again. “You can go right in. I should tell you Mr. Lord has an appointment in about thirty minutes.”
“We’ll try to wrap it up before that.”
The receptionist waited, then closed the door behind them.
Lord sat at his desk in an office easily twice the size of reception and just as clean and organized.
He had two windows at his back—street view—with privacy screens engaged.
He had a powerful build—broad shoulders, wide chest. He’d let his hair go more salt than pepper, cut short around a strong-boned, dark-skinned face.
He had big hands, and folded them on the desk as he took stock of Eve.
“You want to know if I killed Greenleaf. I didn’t. But I’m not sorry he’s dead.”
