That, Eve thought, was one way to do it.
Without waiting for an invitation, she sat in one of the fake leather chairs facing the desk.
“You blame Captain Greenleaf for your daughter’s death?”
“He contributed. He could have recommended disciplinary action, retraining, psychiatric and mental health assistance. But he didn’t, and he wouldn’t. And Whitney, who’d barely sat his ass down in the commander’s chair, wouldn’t stand up for one of his own. Neither would her supervising officer. Nobody stood up for her.”
“She broke a minor child’s arm, failed to call for medical assistance, and threatened to do more physical harm. It wasn’t her first use of excessive force on the job.”
“And whose fault was it for not pulling her off the street the first time, or the second? They barely slapped her wrist for it when she should’ve been pulled back, retrained, and given counseling. Let me add that minor child had a history of shoplifting, truancy, and resisting.”
Eve couldn’t argue with the first part, not when she wholeheartedly agreed. But the second? “Do you think his history justified your daughter’s use of excessive force?”
“No.” The anger simply drained out of him. “And I told her exactly that. In the end, I didn’t stand for her, either, so she took my service weapon out of the lockbox and killed herself with it.”
“It’s a terrible loss, Mr. Lord,” Peabody began. “But you did stand for her. You went to the commander, to the captain of IAB, to her supervising officer.”
“A lot of good it did me, or her. Greenleaf held a hard line. And the media and cop bashers were all over it because of the vid.”
“Because of the vid,” Eve interrupted, “or because of your daughter’s actions?”
“She was wrong. Jesus Christ, I was on the job for twenty-seven years, I know she was wrong. She needed a chance to get right, and no one gave it to her. Greenleaf, he had twelve years, four months, and ten days living after she died. I’m not complaining his time came up.”
“Where were you on the night he was killed, between twenty and twenty-two hundred hours?”
“You saw the guy who just left? He hired me to check on his wife of not quite three years. She told him she’d signed up for some night classes, boost her chances of a promotion at work. Keeping it short, he got suspicious, hired me three days ago.
“It took me one night—supposedly her night-class night, Greenleaf’s night. I staked out her apartment building, watched her come out and meet up with a male—Caucasian, brown and brown, about thirty. They got handsy right off.”
Lord shook his head. “Not ten steps out of the building where she lives with her husband, and they’re all over each other. They got into a cab. I tailed them a few blocks to what turned out to be his place. I got a clear enough shot of him to get an ID—I’ve got damn good equipment. Turns out they work together. So I sat on his building, and watched them come out on his balcony. Got plenty of money shots of them right there, all over each other again. They’re all time-stamped. They went inside about eight, didn’t bother with privacy screens, so I got plenty more money shots.
“She didn’t come out, alone, until shortly after twenty-two hundred. Had a cab waiting, so they’d ordered one up. She blew kisses up to where he stood on the balcony in his boxers. I tailed her home. I surveilled, started at her apartment, at seventeen hundred, ended surveillance at twenty-two- thirty, after which I went home and wrote it all up. I don’t have to copy you the file without a warrant, but I will if you keep my client out of it. He’s got enough to deal with.”
“Any proof you were the one doing the surveilling? Taking those money shots?”
“I’m a one-man operation. Always have been. Hell. No place to park with a good visual on the building of the guy the wife’s screwing around with. I parked, walked up Spring Street, little bar/café right across from his building, outdoor tables. I grabbed one, ordered a blooming onion and iced tea. Got that receipt, time-stamped. The server’s going to remember me. I told her I was a freelance photographer, taking street shots for an art book.
“She bought it. I’m good at what I do. Took a couple shots of her to sweeten the pot, and printed them out for her. She’ll remember me.”
“All right. We’d appreciate the file, and we’ll keep your client out of it.” Lord swiveled to his comp. “I hope you find who did it.”
“To congratulate them?”
He shot a look at Eve as he ordered a file copy. “No. I turned in my shield, but I believe in what it stands for. I still believe in law and order, Lieutenant. I’m not sorry he’s dead, but whoever killed him belongs in a cage.”
As they walked down to the street, Peabody shook her head. “He’s a hard-ass, too, when it comes to his daughter. But I don’t think he had anything to do with Greenleaf’s murder.”
“Three reasons why.”
“Okay. He could’ve arranged for someone to do the kill while he was alibied, but it feels like he’d have been more ‘I’ve moved on’ instead of saying he’s fine with Greenleaf being a dead man. Second reason. It seems like he’d have gone for Whitney—he was commander—or the supervising officer. And if he went for either, he’d have done it twelve years ago. Third, if the alibi pans out, and it’s going to, it’s just too neat and tidy and coincidental that he’d get someone to do the deed, that Mrs. Greenleaf’s night out just happened to coordinate with the cheating wife’s slut night.”
“Solid reasons, and I agree. We’ll check the file, the alibi, but it’s not him.”
“One down then. Maybe we could stop by that cart on the corner, grab something to eat on the way to the next.”
No doubt the cart food smelled better than it would taste, but it smelled pretty damn good at the moment.
Eve considered a soy dog, then decided against as, if she loaded it up as it should be, too messy. She settled for cart fries while Peabody went for the dog, mustard only.
As they walked to the lot, Eve dug out a fry. One bite and her lip lit on fire.
“Shit!”
“It’s the salt.” Peabody winced in sympathy. “You need to wand again.
It’s just open enough for the salt burn.”
“Fuck me,” Eve muttered against the hand she pressed to the sting. Then she shoved the fries at Peabody.
“I really shouldn’t, but…” She nibbled on fries, on the dog while they walked to the car. “We can get you something cold from the vehicle AC. Like an ice pop.”
“Ice pops turn your tongue colors. How am I supposed to professionally interview a suspect with a purple or green tongue?”
In the car, she ordered a tube of Pepsi and held it to her stinging lip until it numbed.
They interviewed three more, all alibied tight, one who’d been in a birthing center with her husband for a full eight hours on the night in question. Since the little family was at home, Peabody got to coo over the new baby.
“She was so sweet!”
“She looked like a fish. Like a bald, human fish.”
“Aw. But no way, Dallas. Yeah, she got a little teary over her father, but it rang true she’d made a life. And it’s hard to arrange having a baby to cover conspiracy to murder.”
“No, not her, and the guy before who eloped with his longtime cohab, and just got back from the honeymoon yesterday. Add he didn’t seem to have any close ties with his older, dead cop brother, who ragged him about being gay. And then there was Colton, Jayne’s widow.
“Who’s next?”
“Another of yours. Oglebee.”
“Oglebee, Steven,” Eve said as she pushed through crosstown traffic. “Thirty-two, no marriages, no cohabs on record. One semester community college, booted for nonattendance. Application denied for the Academy. Bounced from job to job. Retail clerk, stock boy, online sales, currently delivery guy for Grab & Go.”
“I have to be desperate to order from G&G,” Peabody commented. “I’ve been desperate a few times. It’s a mistake.”
“He also blogs. Or more uses blogging to spew out his racist, homophobic, misogynistic, anti-trans, anti-government viewpoints wrapped in crazed conspiracy theories. He calls it A Real Man.”
“He sounds nice.”
“Yeah, a real prince. He lives over his employment. What’s been his employment the last twenty-two months—that’s a record. On the surface, he doesn’t seem smart enough to have planned something like this. Mean enough? He ranks. But his father went down for corruption, stemming from mob connections.”
“So the son may have inherited some of those connections, and brokered a hit on the captain.”
“Possibly. Low-level connections, a favor for a favor.”
She found a street-level spot between a couple of junkers. Then again, most of the vehicles on the block rated junk status.
The building housing the Grab & Go and the residential units over it earned the same rank. It stood grimy gray and laced with poorly executed graffiti.
Her favorite of the offerings demanded:
COX AND CUNTS UNITE
With a drawing of a giant penis rammed into a vagina created by someone with little to no understanding of the female anatomy.
“That doesn’t look like a ginny—not a human one anyway,” Peabody observed. “Plus, the scale of the weenie’s way off.”
“First I have to get beyond the fact a police detective uses words like ginny and weenie. No,” Eve added after a moment. “Really can’t get beyond it. I also believe the same artist painted those massive tits with smiley faces for nipples.”
Peabody considered, nodded. “No mistaking the style. I sense the artist is depicting his hope—perhaps what he envisions as the hope of all males—to achieve a giant boner, and that the recipient of same will possess enormous, happy boobs.”
“That’s pretty good,” Eve decided. “It almost makes up for ginny and weenie. Almost. Let’s get this done.”
They went inside where, as Peabody said, only the desperate go.
The counter displayed mystery meats slowly graying under warming lights. Soggy lettuce, tomatoes, lunch mystery meats, and onions that might have been chopped fresh sometime the week before gasped in coolers. Cardboard slices of pizza revolved, sad and shamed, in a countertop spinner.
The counter man—maybe seventeen and battling a vicious case of acne
—sent Eve a hopeful look. “What can I getcha?” “Steven Oglebee.”
“Oh.” Disappointment smothered hope. “He’s not on till like five. Five to midnight.”
“Okay.”
“Um, our heroes are on special.”
“I bet they’re special,” Eve said as she aimed for the door. “We’ll pass.” She mastered in the street door for the residential units.
“He’s on five,” Peabody said, and sighed. “Five floors, good cardio.”
They hit the stairway, which smelled like the week-old onions with a hint of spoiled mystery meat. Noise boomeranged against the fire door on every floor, and the heat trapped inside was awesome.
“Good cardio,” Peabody repeated. “And I can feel the water weight pouring off.”
“Apparently real men live in dumps with no soundproofing and crap climate control.”
“And that smell like a G&G dumpster.”
When they came out on five, the heat dropped marginally, and the noise escalated. She heard the wild, fake laughter of a screen comedy, and some kid shrieking, It’s mine! It’s mine!
Behind Oglebee’s door, silence.
Over it a security cam—a damn good one, she noted. And on it, double police locks and a sign that read:
If You’re Selling Something, Looking For A Handout, Pushing God Crap Or Liberal Bullshit
Fuck Off!
“See, didn’t I say he sounded nice?”
Eve tapped the sticker just above the locksets that proclaimed him a proud member of the Men for Freedom militia.
“And a nutcase.”
She pressed the buzzer. Then leaned on it until she heard someone inside curse.
He shouted through the closed door, “Can’t you bitches read?” “Can you?” Eve held her badge up for the camera.
He opened the door enough for it to crack against a double security chain. “The fuck you want?”
“A few minutes of your time here, or considerably more of it at Central.
You get to choose.”
“I don’t have to open this door unless you got a warrant. I know my rights.”
“No, you don’t have to. I can get a warrant, and if I have to take the time to do so, I’ll probably be irritated. I tend to take more time to get things done when I’m irritated.”
“I can see what my lawyer has to say about that.”
“You can. If you want to contact him now, we’ll wait. Since we wouldn’t want to waste the taxpayers’ time, we’ll get that warrant while we do. Which will now include a search of the premises, since the distinctive smell of Zoner’s emanating from your apartment. Or we can come in and have a conversation.”
He snorted. “Shit. You think I’m worried about getting busted for Zoner?
For my personal use?”
Cliché or not, she thought, he had beady eyes. She figured they suited him.
“Since you’ve been busted, twice, for possession with intent to distribute, yeah, you might want to be a little worried about a third bust. Up to you.”
“Neither bust stuck.”
She just smiled. “Bet I can make this one stick. Or, we have a simple, civilized conversation on another matter.”
“What matter?”
Enough, Eve thought. “Open the door, Mr. Oglebee, or I get that warrant.”
He slammed the door, but the security chain rattled.
When the door opened again, she got a good look at him.
Paunchy, getting doughy around the jowls—and trying to hide that with a full beard that needed grooming. He wore his medium brown hair in a military high and tight.
He wore a T-shirt of the Confederate battle flag, and apparently without irony, had the Don’t Tread on Me symbol tattooed on his right bicep.
In his bare feet he stood about an inch shorter than Eve and, from the look in his cloudy blue eyes, didn’t care for that. Or her.
He made that clear by snarling, “Females got no business being cops.
Now, what the fuck you want? I’m working.” “Your shift starts at five.”
“My real work.” He jabbed a finger toward a workstation and the state- of-the-art system on it.
Damn good furniture, too, she noted, for a delivery guy in a low-end apartment in a crappy building.
“Your blogging?”
“Females aren’t my audience. Unless they know their place.”
“In the interest of time, we’ll let that ride.” He smirked; she ignored it. “Your father was on the job.”
“That’s right. He was a hero. Put his life on the line every freaking day.
Took no shit from anyone.”
“He also took bribes and kickbacks from the Lorenzo family, which included individuals he was sworn to investigate.”
Flags of angry red streaked across Oglebee’s face, a wildfire over the bushy beard. “That’s a dirty lie, a lie made up by that IAB stooge because my father was better than him. Better than all of them.”
“By IAB stooge I assume you mean Captain Martin Greenleaf.”
“Lying bastard, no sense of loyalty. No respect for the blue line. My father had eighteen years on the force, he risked his life to make sure the people of this city were protected, and that son of a bitch hounded him into the grave. Sure, he took money—that’s how he gained their trust so he could build a solid case and take them down.”
“Is that what he told you?” “That’s what I know!”
“Do you also know that Captain Greenleaf was killed on Sunday night?”
His smile spread. “Yeah, I heard. About fucking time. Took himself out’s what I heard, because he couldn’t live anymore with the guilt of ruining so many real cops. Real men, like my old man.”
“You heard incorrectly. Homicide, not suicide.”
“Yeah, you’d say that. Covering it up. That’s what your type does.” “Female cops?” Peabody wondered.
“Females who get badges and get rank because they put out. How many blow jobs did it take for you to make lieutenant?” he asked Eve. “Somebody popped you a couple good ones there. Looks like you like it rough.”
Peabody said, “Uh-oh,” but Eve shook her head. “Whereabouts, Sunday night, between eight and ten P.M.”
Something flickered in his eyes, flickered before he glanced away. “Like you said, my shift starts at five. I’m five to midnight.”
“And if we go back downstairs, your supervisor and the log will verify you were on Sunday night?”
“So it’s my night off.” He shifted his stance, spread his legs. “Whereabouts,” Eve repeated. “Eight to ten P.M.”
“Working. Right over there.”
“Did you see anyone or speak to anyone, did anyone drop by who can verify you were home during that time frame?”
“I said I was fucking working.”
“That would be a no. Have you ever been to Captain Greenleaf’s apartment?”
“Why the hell would I? We ain’t pals.” “His building’s in your delivery area.”
“So what? That doesn’t prove anything.”
“When I calculate the odds of you delivering to that building within the twenty-two months of your employment, they strike me as pretty good. You’ve got motive, you had opportunity, and your line of work offers a means. That’s what people like me call a hat trick.”
“That’s bullshit. You’re trying to come for me like Greenleaf did my father. What, did Greenleaf bang some lame slut back then and she popped you out? Or maybe you just like banging old men.”
“Jesus,” Peabody snapped. “You’re really completely vile.”
“I speak the truth!” He slammed his fist into his open palm as if that proved it. “I speak for men everywhere who know how to be men, and not soy-latte-sipping, limp-dick pussies. Real men who are damn well going to take back the power from the frigid bitches and the queers and—”
“I bet you haven’t been laid without paying for it your whole pathetic, narrow-minded, whiny little life.”
Those red flags turned dangerously toward purple as he snarled at Peabody. “You get out. Both you cunts get out. Get your fucking warrant, and I’ll get my fucking lawyer. We’ll see who comes out.”
“I’d say that concludes this conversation.” Eve took Peabody’s arm. “You’d be smart to get that lawyer, because we’re not done.” She nudged Peabody to the door and through it before she turned. And gestured toward his shirt.
“You know, they lost. But it tracks a loser would wear a loser’s shirt.”
In the hallway she gestured for the stairs. “You know how sexy you look when you’re angry, Peabody. Now he only wants you more.”
“God!” Peabody made a sound between a laugh and a groan. “I’m sorry.
You weren’t finished, and I just snapped.”
“No, I was finished. We weren’t going to get any more out of him. Not there and then.”
“He could’ve done it, Dallas. Motive, means, opportunity, like you said.” “Means is a little up in the air, but with a solid partner, yeah, he could’ve
done it. Or he could just be as full of hot, nasty air as this stairwell.” “Something off with him—more than his general fuckery.” Peabody sent
a last snarl up the stairwell. “How does he afford a D and C system like that? And that couch? That’s going to go for two grand—McNab and I’ve looked at a lot of furniture since the Great House Project. The entertainment screen? Top of the line. He’s got champagne stuff in a rotgut, home-brew apartment. How does he afford it on what he makes at the G&G?”
“That’s what we’re going to find out.”
As they walked back onto the sidewalk, she took out her ’link. “By tagging Roarke and asking him to dig into Oglebee’s finances.”
“Ah, I wouldn’t tag him.”
“Why not? He volunteered—and it’s fun for him. Plus, nobody goes deeper faster.” She paused on that with the image of the weenie and ginny in mind. “That wasn’t a sexual reference.”
“Bet it could be, but I’ll let it slide. That’s why,” Peabody said, and pointed to Eve’s face. “He’s going to see you got punched, then he’ll think about that, worry until you’re home. If he sees it at home, it cuts out the next couple hours. You should just text.”
Eve got back in the car. “That’s a good catch. That’s a very good catch.” “That’s what partners are for.”
“Is that what they’re for? And here I thought it was for getting pissed when their partner got accused of giving out BJs and/or banging superior officers with about four decades on them.”
“That, too. You were pissed.”
“Oh yeah. Everything about him pissed me off, and we’re going to make him sorry for it.”
She texted Roarke.
When and if you have time, and want the entertainment,
financials on Steven R. Oglebee. Got a strong feeling you won’t have to dig very deep. May have more later, but he’s a standout.
She added his data and address.
“Let’s go write all this up.” She pulled out into traffic. “And we’ll see who Oglebee worked with during his last few years on the job. See if we can pull any more on the son. He’s not clean, Peabody.”
“No, he’s not. If you take the on-the-job Oglebee, I can push on the list. We should be able to pull out at least a couple more. McNab and I could take one or two on the way home.”
“That works. We eliminated more, and we’ve got one possible. Focusing on the suicide angle’s still the best method.”
When her ’link signaled a text, she called it up on her in-dash.
Just coming out of a meeting and going into another. After that,
I could use some entertainment. We’ll see what I can find before you get home.
Thanks. In the field, heading back to Central to tie some things up. See you later.
“It’s nice being with someone who gets the job,” Peabody commented.
“Yeah, I guess. No,” Eve corrected. “I know it is.”
As she pulled into the garage, she flashed back to that morning. “It’s got to help if the cop side of it isn’t a complete asshole.”
“You’re thinking of Lansing.” “Among others.”
“You really want to wand that lip again, ice down one more time before you get home.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Then she frowned as they walked to the elevator. “He kept a file on me, starting about the time Nadine published the Icove book.”
“Jealous, probably. And convinced himself Nadine bribed you or something. Like maybe you and Nadine had a hot affair.”
“Oh please.” But that stopped her. “I wonder.” “I was joking about that part.”
“I just wonder,” she repeated, and tagged Nadine.
“Dallas, why are you always getting smacked in the face?”
“Keeps me mean and ready. Detective Lansing, IAB. Do you know him?”
“Lansing? I don’t…” She shook back her streaky hair, angled her head as her foxy green eyes narrowed. “Oh yeah. I remember him. John, Jack— no, Joe. Joe Lansing, IAB.”
“How?”
“He hit on me, pretty hard. Right after I got the crime beat, and I was doing a follow-up on internal investigations at the NYPSD. So, what, like four years ago—something like that. He didn’t want to take no. I don’t date cops—conflict of interest. Seems to me he was like nobody has to know. On top of the no for the first reason, I didn’t like him. I mean he’s good to look at, but I just didn’t like him. And on top of that, it came out he was married, so absolutely no.”
“Did he keep at it?”
“For a while. Tagged me a couple times. Even came by my place once— and that’s when, if I’m remembering right, I told him I’d report him if he didn’t back off. He got pissed, but he backed off. Why?”
“He’s the one who punched me in the face. Now I’ve got the reason why.”
“He punched you because I turned him down four years ago?” Nadine fluffed at her hair. “I know my own devastating charm, but … that’s a stretch.”
Satisfied, Eve got on the elevator. “Because that, then you and I have a professional and personal relationship. You wrote a big-ass bestseller about one of my cases. He’s been keeping a file on me.”
Amusement turned to mild outrage. “Well, for God’s sake. I’m sorry he punched you. I still wouldn’t have gotten naked with him, but sorry.”
“No need. It just made me itchy not knowing exactly why he went off.”
“Give me some details. Did you deal with him due to the Greenleaf investigation? I want to—”
“Tag IAB,” Eve told her. And clicked off.
“You should tell Mira what Nadine just told you. Whitney, too.”
Eve nodded as the door opened and more cops piled on. “Trust me.”
