When they drove through the gates, Eve admitted—to herself—if she had the choice, she’d have dropped flat on the bed and slept for the next ten hours.
Since she didn’t, why mention it?
As they walked to the door, Roarke took her hand, kissed her knuckles. “Food will perk you up.”
So it showed, she thought. No need to mention it.
Summerset loomed, of course, and the cat padded over to ribbon through Eve’s legs as if he hadn’t been royally pissed at her the day before.
“And how was your tour?”
“You’ll have to get down there soon,” Roarke told him. “Peabody’s waterfall is a study in artistic and mechanical talents.”
“I saw it and more a few days ago. And I agree. I thought you might stay longer, have dinner with them.”
“Work.” Eve headed for the stairs. “Ah. Of course.”
Sensing the tone, she shot a look over her shoulder, and grabbed Roarke’s line. “Murder has no sense of timing. So,” she added, “you should watch your step.”
In her office, she shrugged out of her jacket, tossed it aside. “A meal first, Eve. You’re flagging.”
“I really need to update Whitney.”
“And given the time, he’s very likely at his own evening meal. We’ll have ours, then you’ll update him.”
“Crap, you’re probably right. I’m going to text him, ask if he’ll be available for an update in … an hour. That gives me time to eat and get
some things organized.”
“Good plan. Go on then, take ten minutes to work on your book or your board, whichever, and I’ll deal with the meal. You can update me while you eat. Practice.”
She took the ten for the board, as the visual always worked for her. And the visual still put Arnez/Robards on her list. Since, at the moment, she had no one else on that list, they hit the top of it.
At least until she had a chance to dig deeper into the dead and disgraced list.
“All right, come eat, have a glass of wine.”
He’d opened the doors to the little balcony, as they both enjoyed the air. And he’d added a side salad to the pasta—but she wasn’t going to bitch about it.
“I thought I had a hot one,” she said, and told him about Serene Brenner. Roarke listened, nodded, sipped wine.
“And you’re sure she’s clear?”
“Her alibi’s solid. I sent the security feed into EDD in case she messed with it, but that’s not going to pan out. She has two people backing her up, and the vid she said they watched—that checks, and the time watched checks. Her parole officer considers her a success story, and her record since getting out is clean. Plus…”
“Plus?”
“She didn’t ring. She just didn’t.” “But there are others.”
She stabbed into a meatball. “A hell of a lot of others.” “And I’m to look into the finances of that hell of a lot?”
“Maybe, eventually. Tonight, I want you to dig hard into Arnez and Robards.”
Watching her, he wound pasta on his fork. “The neighbors.”
“Because they do ring, and I don’t know if that’s just because, Jesus, the opportunity was right there. Get friendly, take the time, make the effort. And because you’ve done that, plan the rest out. Go into the bedroom— remember Greenleaf’s always running late—unlock the window while she’s not looking.”
She ate, then waved her fork.
“All you have to do is walk out with her, signal your partner, who’s two floors up. Down the fire escape right after dark, kill the captain, set up the suicide, get back upstairs. I’m thinking she planned to get back into the bedroom, lock the window again, but we were there, and that part fell off.”
She ate, cursed, ate more. “Sometimes it’s just that simple. Sometimes it’s not, but sometimes it is.”
“All right, I’ll look, and deep.” “You don’t see it.”
“I trust your instincts,” he qualified. “But you did say the list is long.”
“Yeah, it is. And somebody else could’ve gotten friendly enough to get in there. Dropped in to see the captain when his wife wasn’t there, for instance.”
She could see how it played—and just that simple, too.
“Just a casual drop-by, ‘How’s it going, Martin’ deal. Then you say you have to use the john, and zip into the bedroom. Ten seconds.”
“And his widow wouldn’t know to mention it to you when you asked.” “Yeah. Or they just watched the place long enough to get the routine.” He nodded. “People are often more predictable than they imagine.”
“Yeah, they are. Somebody else could live in the building or have a connection there. They could’ve used your magnet trick, or just gotten in a few days before when the apartment was empty. Didn’t worry about relocking the window because deed’s done.”
She picked up her wine. “Sometimes it’s not simple.” “Agreed. Do you want my instincts?”
“You’re not the expert consultant, civilian, for nothing.” “Well then. I don’t see the magnet tool in this.”
“Because?”
“You’d first have to know their habit—more of a rule, isn’t it really?—of keeping everything locked.”
“Yeah.” Winding pasta, she nodded. “You’ve got that.”
“If you know that, you’ve already likely found a way in. And if you’ve found a way in, why trouble yourself with the extra time and risk? Then add that the security feed’s looped and overwritten every two days, wasn’t it? So much simpler to just walk into the building—either mastering or buzzing in through that connection. A connection with the Greenleafs or another tenant. Unlock the window, then walk away.”
“You’re risking they’ll notice, lock it again.”
“You are. But your odds are good they won’t in only a few days.”
She pointed her loaded fork at him before she ate. “You’d have used the magnet.”
“I would, again most likely. But my purpose in getting in would’ve been
—in the long ago—to steal, not to kill. You’re looking for someone who had one purpose—or two, as the suicide needed to be staged.”
“That takes me straight back to Arnez and Robards.”
“On one hand.” With a shrug, he drank more wine. “On the other, the lady of the house admits to unlocking them to clean in the spring. If the investigator accepted the suicide, it’s an easy step to considering she simply neglected to lock that single window. Either way, Captain Greenleaf’s dead, so the purpose is accomplished. Why worry about such a small detail, and one that can be explained away? More?”
He lifted a finger before she could debate. “The timing, Webster’s unexpected arrival. If the killer heard Webster, any plans to finesse the lock would weigh against discovery. Escape takes precedence.”
“I’ll agree with that. Another problem. We can’t know who else the captain might have told about his wife’s plans. My issue with that is this wasn’t an impulse kill, something put together on the day of or a couple of days prior. It took time.”
“It certainly seems so,” he agreed. “A cop in prison has a great deal of time, as would someone connected to him or her.”
“And I’ve yet to find any connection to Arnez or Robards. Yet,” she repeated.
“I’ll start with the finances. We’ll clear this up, then I’ll set up your holo- meeting.”
“I’ll clear this up. You set that up. You were right,” she added.
“Oh, about too many things to mention. But what specifically in this case?”
“The food helped. I’ve got a boost going, so I’m going to use it.”
While she dealt with the dishes, she went over her report in her head.
When she came out, Roarke stood at her command center. “It’s ready when you are. You can take it from here?”
“Yeah. I could’ve gotten it going. It would only take me four or five times as long as it takes you, but I could do it.”
She paused to look over at her board. “You made good points. The killer had purpose. They also believed they had another couple of hours. Maybe planned to plant a few more suicide seeds. But then Webster’s knocking on the door. The only thing to do is get out, and fast.
“Can’t go out the apartment door—and maybe that was the plan. Lock the window after you come in, do the job, plant the seeds, go out the door. Could’ve had a hole to wait in, another apartment, a stairway, the basement storage/laundry areas. It’s going to connect to a cop, and a cop’s going to know one of the first things the investigator’s going to do is check the security feed. You wait that out, walk out. And clear.”
“It doesn’t shorten your list.” “Not even a little.”
“I’ll see what I can find on your favorite suspects.”
Once more Eve studied Arnez’s photo. “She was right there. If she’s in this, was that really smart or really stupid? I haven’t decided.”
When Roarke left her, she positioned herself, then called up the holo.
It always gave her a quick, internal jolt to see Whitney in casual clothes. He sat at a desk in a simple navy T-shirt. And still, the wardrobe didn’t lessen the sense of command.
“Commander, thanks for opening your schedule this evening.”
“You’ve had a full day. More than,” he added. “What do you know?” “There’s a lot I don’t. I can say, after background checks, interviews, and
verifying movements and times, the captain’s family is clear. We’ve begun the process of delving into anyone the captain investigated, with emphasis on those who were removed from the NYPSD, who faced criminal charges. Those who self-terminated after same or were killed or died—and those connected to them. Family, spouses, partners.”
She ran through the progress of the day, including the interview with Serene Brenner.
“I remember Detective Brenner. You’re confident she’s clear?”
“Yes, sir, fully confident. Detectives Peabody and McNab are continuing work on compiling the list, as I will be. We’ll start running through those individuals tomorrow.”
“I spoke with Elizabeth Greenleaf shortly ago. They plan to hold the memorial the day after tomorrow. I want as many as we can manage, in full
dress, to attend. You and your investigative team will be excused from that duty if necessary.”
“We’ll attend, sir, if at all possible.”
“That’s good enough. We’re after a cop killer, Lieutenant. If you can pull more of your division in, do so.”
“Understood.”
“I also want you to watch your six.” “Sir?”
“Lansing lost his badge today, immediate termination for cause. His own captain supported that decision. He didn’t take it well, and the record of his … reaction supports that decision and the cause for it. Nor did he accept any personal responsibility for his behavior in your bullpen.”
“I didn’t expect him to.”
“Watch your six, Dallas,” Whitney repeated. “Lansing worries me.” “Yes, sir.”
“And keep me updated on the investigation. It’s going to track back to a cop, one who might have been, at one time, under my command.”
He said nothing for a moment. He didn’t have to, as she could see the weight heavy on his shoulders.
“Good hunting,” he said, and signed off.
She shut down the holo-program, then programmed coffee. She sat at her command center and started hunting.
About an hour in, she decided to make her first contact, working chronologically back from Greenleaf’s retirement. The last internal investigation he’d headed involved an officer with more than eight years on the job, and a file with more than a couple of reprimands, and several complaints and accusations of excessive force.
Officer Drake Milrod’s last night on the job involved a trans woman in her sixties, inebriated and walking home from a party. Milrod pulled his patrol car over, turned off his body recorder, and ordered his partner—a boot with under three months in—to do the same.
Officer Agnes Carte had enough sense to ignore the order, and her record clearly showed Milrod taunting the woman, who was drunk enough to initially be amused.
He then tossed her to the ground, and in the process of cuffing her—for no fucking reason, Eve noted—broke two of her fingers, punched her—
face, body.
When Carte attempted to stop him, he assaulted her, drew his stunner, threatened her with it. Then used it on the civilian.
Carte called for assistance, and Milrod stunned her. As she went down, her recorder showed Milrod stunning the now unconscious woman again.
By the time other officers arrived, Milrod had a story about the woman attacking him, his partner getting in the way.
The woman died en route to the hospital—head trauma, neurological distress. Carte suffered a concussion. And her recording clearly documented the events.
The internal investigation, after Milrod’s suspension, bore out Carte’s documentation, her statement. Greenleaf recommended termination, and Milrod was charged with second-degree murder, assault, misuse of his service weapon, and a host of other charges.
Although he was currently doing twenty-five off-planet, he had a brother, both parents, and an ex-wife alive and well.
Not easy to plot revenge and murder from an off-planet cage, but he’d made public threats against Greenleaf, Officer Carte, and the prosecutor.
She started with Carte.
“Officer Carte, Lieutenant Dallas.” “Yes, sir. I know who you are.”
“I’m primary on Captain Greenleaf’s murder investigation.”
Carte, a dark-skinned Black woman about Peabody’s age, closed soulful brown eyes. “You want to talk to me about Milrod. Lieutenant, he’s got another solid twenty off-planet.”
“I’m aware. Has he attempted to contact you since his incarceration?” “No, sir.”
“Has anyone associated with him contacted you for any reason?”
“Not since his trial, no, sir. Lieutenant, I’ve tried to put that behind me. I had barely two months on the job, I was just trying to do the job, learn, be a good cop. I testified against him, and a lot of other cops didn’t want to work with me after that, so—”
“Then they were wrong. Dead wrong. I’ve reviewed the incident, I’ve reviewed your recording and statements, the log that verifies you called for backup, stating your partner was out of control. You did everything right and absolutely nothing wrong.”
“I appreciate that, sir, but it’s taken me years to get to a place where I’m trusted and have trust. I just want to keep it in the rearview.”
“Understood. There’s been no contact?”
“No, sir, and I would have reported same. When he gets out in twenty, if he comes after me, he won’t find me so easy to put down. Captain Greenleaf was supportive and professional—plenty weren’t. Some still aren’t. I was sincerely sorry to hear about his death and the circumstances.”
“All right, Officer. Let me add this. If you continue to find a lack of support, I’d take you on. I value solid cops.”
Those soulful eyes closed again. “That means a great deal, sir. More than I can say. I don’t want Homicide. I still see her face. Mandy Levins, age sixty-three. But thank you.”
“If you ever change your mind, the door’s open. You did all you could do, Officer. You did the job. Remember that.”
She moved on to the brother. Paul Milrod—age thirty-six, father of two, married seven years—lived in Albuquerque and worked as a therapist specializing in minors.
When he answered his ’link, his quietly handsome face held a carefully blank expression.
“NYPSD?”
“That’s right. I’m heading a murder investigation here, and the victim was the Internal Affairs captain in charge of your brother’s case five years ago.”
“I see. I don’t know how I can help you.”
“How often do you speak with your brother?”
“I haven’t been in contact with him since he contacted me when he was charged and demanded I not only come to New York as a character witness for his trial, but give him twenty thousand for a lawyer. I did neither. Prior to that, we hadn’t communicated since I went to college, at eighteen. That would be about eighteen years ago.”
He held up a hand.
“Let me save us both time. Drake was a bully, all his life. He bullied me all of mine until I got away. He bullied our parents, his ex-wife, and anyone else he could. He should never have been given a badge and a weapon.”
“I’ve reviewed his file, Mr. Milrod, and don’t disagree. Would he contact your parents?”
“No. They’d tell me. They live out here now. He broke their hearts countless times. He demanded they mortgage their home to pay for his lawyer, and threatened them—his own parents. He struck our mother, Lieutenant. And that was the final blow, literally. He’s exactly where he belongs.”
“Do you know of anyone who might assist him in exacting revenge?”
“I don’t. He hasn’t been in my life nor I in his—thank God—for eighteen years other than that single, ugly conversation. I honestly can’t help you, and I would.”
She believed him.
“I appreciate you taking the time to talk with me.” “No problem. If I could add something?”
“Please.”
“He’s a dangerous man, but only to those he sees as weaker. Because like so many bullies, he’s also a coward. I was the younger brother, someone he saw as weaker—and he wasn’t wrong for a number of years. My mother’s a woman, so weaker. His ex, a woman, so weaker. It’s unlikely he’d see this police captain as weaker and follow through. Even if he could find a way.”
“Thank you for your input.” “Good luck.”
She sat back, thinking it through as she wrote it up.
Milrod, unlikely. Not smart enough. No finances to buy even a cheap, sloppy hit.
She glanced over as Roarke stepped in. “Maybe you’re having better luck than I am.”
“I doubt you’ll see it that way.” Since it was there, he picked up her coffee, drank some. “Arnez and Robards. There’s nothing in their finances that veers off the norm. She’s worked, at least part-time, since she was fifteen. She, and her mother, as I checked, cobbled enough together for college, which she did primarily by remote and added more working hours. She’s solid enough financially.”
He set her coffee back down, decided to switch to water for a bit.
“She’s moved around in jobs, as you know, but strategically. No hidden accounts, no odd deposits or withdrawals. She pays her bills on time. Other
than rent, her biggest expenditure is wardrobe, which given her career track makes sense.
“Her mother relocated to Georgia with her cohab about four years ago. I didn’t find any travel there on her part, so assume they’re not close.”
“No family pictures I saw in her apartment. Not any.”
“That would track, wouldn’t it? She’s lived in New York all her life. She had grandparents on both sides, but none live in the area and, again, there’s no travel to indicate visits.”
“Not all families are families.”
“Truer words,” he agreed. “Robards, however, continues to work as a mechanic in his old neighborhood, very near his family. And his finances show he supports them, generously when he’s able. He makes a good living through his employment, adds to it by restoring and selling classic cars. He’s enterprising and apparently skilled. He does quite well for himself.
“Again, there’s nothing shady in his finances. I have to tell you that angle’s a dead end.”
“Okay, if there’s nothing there, there’s nothing. What about the grandparents? Arnez?”
“Her maternal grandparents—divorced. She lives in Reno, and he in Memphis. Paternal, still married, relocated to Wisconsin, where the grandmother had family, about twenty years ago. They’ve since retired to Tampa, Florida. Again, no travel connecting either way, no sign of financial gifts or assistance. I can’t tell you if they’re in contact with each other, but it seems doubtful given the rest.”
“Okay. All right.” Getting stuck after hitting a dead end equaled stubborn. Or stupid. “I’ve got to move on.”
“Why don’t I help you with that?”
“I can give you some names. You could stick with finances.”
“My favorite thing.” Because he could all but see the tension in her shoulders, he stepped behind her to rub them.
“But do you really think money’s the angle?”
“It’s going to be a cop, or someone connected to one. I still think the easiest way to gain access to the Greenleaf apartment and, to their routine, is from the building, or a neighboring one. I’ve run the tenants in the building, and nothing pops. But say there’s something hinky in their
finances? Income or outlay—payment for the kill, or payment out for some sort of blackmail. Or an addiction that could be exploited.”
“All right then, I’ll look. Send me the names. Two hours more. Two hours,” he repeated, “then we call it. You’re losing that post-dinner boost.”
“Maybe. But there’s coffee.”
“Two hours more,” he repeated as he started back to his office. “It’s a fair deal.”
Since it was, and his work would save her a lot of time, she didn’t argue. She dug in, continued the process of working back in time. The odds, she calculated, favored someone with a fresher grudge. Alternately, someone
released from prison within the last three to five years.
She pushed on both, using a split screen. She managed a few more ’link conversations because she remembered the Earth rotated on its stupid axis.
By the time she’d used up her two hours, she felt she’d eliminated or shot several names to the bottom of the list.
“I know, I know,” she said when Roarke came back in. “I’m just wrapping up. I’ve eliminated four, five with Brenner, and have three more very low probability. I only want to look through what you just sent me.”
“I can run it down for you.” He took her hand, tugged her to her feet. “My best calculations,” he continued as he walked her out of the office, “take another three off your suspect list, and leave one more in that dead- low probability. You can look at the names and the data in the morning.”
“Great. Only half a million to go. No, seriously, it’s good, solid progress. And you adding another three or four to it helps. Peabody and McNab came through on the deal. So more names to check, but they started the elimination process, so it’s almost a wash there.”
The cat stretched over the bed. He slitted one eye open, then closed it again as Eve shrugged out of her weapon harness.
“And I’ve got two we’re going to want to interview. Maybe we get lucky.”
She sat on the side of the bed to take off her boots. “Making good, solid progress gave me another boost.” “Did it now?”
“It did. And it occurs to me we haven’t kicked the cat off the bed in over three weeks.”
He sat beside her. “We wouldn’t want to spoil him, would we?”
“No.” She swung around, straddled him. “You know what I think?” “I’m getting a glimmer of an idea.”
“Bet it’s more than a glimmer.”
She took his mouth with hers, enjoying the moment. Their house, their bed, their soon-to-be annoyed cat. Work waited, but for morning. The night was theirs, too.
“Nice shirt,” she commented as she worked open buttons. “So I’m resisting just ripping it open.”
“I have more shirts.”
“And still. It’s good to be home.” She peeled the shirt away, tugged the leather tie out of his hair. “Even with the last—what—twenty-six hours, give or take, it’s good to be home.”
He drew her shirt up and away. “The Grecian sun’s given you a glow.” He trailed a finger over her cheek, down the shallow dent in her chin, along her throat.
“New York will take care of that before too long.” “So I’ll enjoy it while it lasts.”
And he pressed his lips to her throat. Then shifted, flipped her so she lay back on the bed.
Galahad grunted, leaped down, stalked away. It made her smile.
“He ought to be used to it by now. Then again…” She drew Roarke down with her. “I don’t think I’ll ever get all the way used to it, either.”
Because it was always new, he thought when their lips met again. Gloriously familiar, and still brilliantly new. The taste of her, the feel of her skin, the shape of her—he’d find her in a world of dark. And still, the thrill of having her could strike fresh and sharp each time, every time.
They rolled over the bed, playful now even as pulses thickened. Her heart beat strong and fast under his lips; her hands moved quick and firm over his back, down his hips.
They took each other deeper—little nips, long strokes until he felt himself simply merge with her. Beat for beat, breath for breath.
When he slipped inside her, a slow joining, she cupped his face in her hands.
She saw everything in his eyes, that wild Irish blue. Everything she felt lived in them, everything she brought to him, all they gave and took from
each other.
Need lived there, and desire. That would always be a thrill. But love, so steady, so endless, so real, dominated all. And that would always, always be a wonder.
For a moment, her body burned, simply burned with all of it. Then the burning became a drenching warmth that rolled her to peak, rocked her there, let her fall, then rise again.
And all, all of everything, shined inside her while their eyes held. He said her name, only her name, before their lips met again.
The moment he let himself go, she wrapped tight and went with him.
