He rose when Eve did.

“Can you give me something? Just drone work, just grunt shit.

Anything.”

“If your captain hasn’t sent those copies, you could give him a push on it.”

“I will.” He walked out with Eve and Peabody.

“We’re going to have to interview the family. They’re among those who’d know about the windows, who’d have easy access to the bedroom.”

“Ah Jesus.” He shoved at his hair. “You’ll clear them, but you need to talk to them. I’ll smooth the ground there.”

“Do you know the women Ms. Greenleaf was out with last night?”

“I’ve met two of them—three now, counting the one from last night.

Yeah, I can smooth that ground, too.”

“You hadn’t met either of the upstairs neighbors before last night?”

She held up a hand before he answered, as she heard shouting from her bullpen.

She quickened her pace, turned inside.

Jenkinson stood, feet planted, arms folded, while a man—another cop, Eve thought, with the cheap suit, hard-shined shoes—shouted in his face.

Still another cop had a hand on the shouter’s arm, trying to pull him back.

Reineke stood on one side of his partner, Santiago and Carmichael on the other. Half the uniforms stood outside their cubes in the back, and the rest watched.

“You think I’m going to take any bullshit from you?”

Jenkinson, way too calm to Eve’s mind, edged just an inch closer. “I think you’re going to fucking stand down before I stand you down.”

“You threatening me?” Now the shouter poked a finger in Jenkinson’s chest.

“There it fucking is.”

Eve caught the grin on Jenkinson’s face before she pushed in.

“Hold it.” She held a hand up toward Jenkinson. “You hold it. What the hell’s going on?”

“Jesus, Lansing, what the fuck?”

When Webster spoke, Eve shot him a look. “You know this asshole?” Lansing spun to her. “We’re going to have a talk, you and me, right here,

right now. I know who you think you are and, I’m telling you, if you think you’re going to cover up the death of a good man with some bullshit excuse for an investigation, I’ll bury you.”

“Lansing, back off. For God’s sake, back off.” His companion pulled at his arm again, and this time got an elbow in the gut.

“You think being Whitney’s pet poodle and some rich man’s toy makes you invulnerable? I’m going to dig up everything there is to dig up on you, you bitch, then shove you in the hole and smother you with it.”

She sized him up as he ranted.

Dark blond hair, heavy-lidded brown eyes, compact build. And out of control.

“What’s his rank, Webster?”

“Goddamn it.” Webster shoved at his hair. “Detective.”

“Just want to get that straight. It sounds like you’re going to be busy, Detective, so you’d better get started. Right now, you’re going to cease any and all physical contact with my detective, and get the hell out of my bullpen.”

“I don’t take orders from you.” And shoved her.

Eve had to slap her own hand against Jenkinson’s chest to stop him—and nearly didn’t.

“He fucking laid his fucking hands on you, LT. That fucker fucking laid fucking hands on you in front of my fucking face.”

Lansing rolled his shoulders and sneered. “You think you can do something about it, old man?”

“Other than break you into pieces and pick his teeth with your bones after?” Eve kept her hand firm on Jenkinson’s chest. “Not much. Me? I’m meaner, and while beating the crap out of you to the entertainment of my bullpen would be a highlight of my day—”

“Let’s try it, bitch.”

“Jesus Christ, Lansing. Webster, I couldn’t stop him.” Webster shook his head at the second cop. “Let her handle it.”

“Oh, so satisfying,” Eve said, and smiled into Lansing’s furious, red- streaked face. “But meaner. As you’ve shown you have no respect for a superior officer, for your badge, and have chosen to defile Captain Greenleaf’s name by your stunningly stupid behavior—”

“Don’t you say his name. Don’t you let his name come out of your fucking mouth or I’ll put your teeth down your throat.”

“As my recorder’s been engaged since I walked in, I’ve documented your stunningly stupid behavior, your assault on a fellow officer, and another on a superior officer, I will make it a mission to see appropriate disciplinary action’s taken. If you want to keep your badge after that disciplinary action’s taken, you’ll get the hell out now.”

“Fuck you.”

“Your choice.”

He put a hand on the butt of his weapon. Eve actually felt the dozen cops behind her do the same.

Jesus Christ.

“Stand down, Detective.” Eve said it quietly. “You need to stand down now.”

“I said fuck you. You think you’re going to screw over Captain Greenleaf, you’re the one who’s going to get screwed over. You and every half-assed excuse for a cop in your division. You’re all going down because I’m taking you down.

“What the fuck are you going to do about it?” When he fisted his free hand, Eve thought:

Yeah, shit. There it fucking is. “Stand down, Detective!”

Whitney surged in. Eve wasn’t sure she’d ever seen that much cold fury on his face before.

“Commander, I’m going to file formal charges for corruption and dereliction of duty against Lieutenant Dallas for her negligence in Captain Greenleaf’s death. As well as—”

“My office, Detective Lansing. Wait in chairs in my admin area until I come.”

“Commander—”

“I gave you an order, Detective. I won’t repeat it.”

“She’s a disgrace to the department, and you know it. You’ve always known it.” Lansing stormed out.

“I apologize, Commander,” Dennison began. “Lieutenant, everyone. He just lost it when the captain informed us about Captain Greenleaf’s death, and that Lieutenant Dallas was primary and had yet to determine if it was self-termination or homicide. I tried to calm him down, came after him, tried to stop him.”

“Lieutenant?”

“This detective attempted to stop Lansing, and got an elbow in the gut for his efforts. This detective made no threats or accusations, sir.”

“Dennison, go back to IAB and tell your captain to report to my office.” “Yes, sir. Webster…” Shaking his head, Dennison walked out. “Lieutenant, sum it up briefly.”

“I have it on record, Commander. I engaged my recorder when I heard the raised voices and stepped into the bullpen.”

“Good. Your office.”

“Party’s over,” Eve said as she turned. “Go be cops.” “I assume I’m going to need coffee.”

“Take the desk chair, sir. I’ll get the coffee and set the recording on- screen.”

He settled into the chair, let out a long, long sigh. “Did he threaten you physically?”

“Yes, sir, he did.”

Whitney nodded, took the coffee she offered. “One question before I review the record. How did you stop Jenkinson from laying him out?”

“It wasn’t easy. On-screen.”

Whitney watched without comment, and Eve drank coffee. It didn’t do a thing for the banging in her head or the burn in her gut.

“‘Pet poodle,’” Whitney murmured. “Rottweiler might work better. Hit me again,” he said, and passed her his empty mug. “He assaulted Dennison, Jenkinson, and you, on record. He made threats to physically harm fellow officers, made baseless accusations, and threatened to use his position in IAB to go after you for personal reasons, was insubordinate, violent, abusive, and out of control.

“He’s done.”

“Sir—”

Whitney waved that away. “He’s been disciplined before, Dallas, for insubordination. He’s been involved in altercations that weren’t on record and got mired in he said / he or she or they said. There are often complaints about IAB, but he has more than his share. He’s done.”

Whitney rose. “Send me a copy of the recording and file a detailed report on same.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you have done so if I hadn’t walked in on it?” “Yes, sir. He’s out of control.”

“Agreed. One more question. How did you manage to keep your own control?”

Now she sighed. “It was harder not to take a shot at him than stopping Jenkinson from taking one. But if I had, the entire bullpen might have taken one. They don’t deserve that on their record.”

“Agreed again. Now, before I go deal with this, the reason I happened to walk in at that particular moment. Jenkinson’s results from his DS exam. I wanted to inform his lieutenant in person.”

“Yes, sir. He passed. No way he wouldn’t.”

“And yet another agreement. Will you call him in to tell him privately?” “Permission to speak frankly, Commander.”

“Granted.”

“No fucking way. This division’s a team.”

They proved it every day. Hell, she thought, they just had. “Would you like to inform him, sir?”

“This is for you. But I’d like to be there. By the way,” he said as they walked out, “interesting balloon.”

“Bullpen humor.”

“Yours doesn’t lack for it.”

She approached Jenkinson’s desk, looked at his mutinous face, his insane tie. “Jenkinson.”

“I said what I said to that fucker, and I’d say it again if I get the chance.

We stand up for each other in here, and we stand for our lieutenant.” “Do you think I couldn’t take that fucker?”

“I think you’d have kicked his ass, then wiped the floor with what was left of it. That doesn’t mean I don’t regret some you didn’t let me do it first.” He shrugged. “I’ve gotta stand by that, Commander.”

“So noted and understood.”

“I appreciate the backup,” Eve said to the room at large. Then she held out a hand to Jenkinson. “I appreciate the sentiment and the backup, Detective Sergeant Jenkinson.”

At his desk, Reineke, the only one Jenkinson had told about the possible promotion, shot both fists in the air, and shouted, “Yes!”

“No shit?” Jenkinson murmured. “Son of a gun.”

He got backslaps, arm punches, congratulations as Whitney held out a hand. “Congratulations, Detective Sergeant. Well earned.”

“Thank you, sir. Jesus, guys, give a DS some room. I wouldn’t’ve taken the exam if you hadn’t talked me into it, boss. I appreciate the backup.”

“Anytime, anywhere. Five minutes to act like lunatics.” She raised her voice over the din. “Five. Then back to the work the city pays you to do. Peabody, get me those names.”

In her office, she created her board and book.

It was irritating to have to take out time to write up the report on Lansing, but it had to be done.

She opened the evidence box, took a careful look at Greenleaf’s will, the insurance papers. She wondered if Webster knew Greenleaf had left him his badge.

She resealed the box before getting more coffee, then dug into the Greenleafs’ financials.

If a motive connected to money, she knew well people killed for a cheap wrist unit and pocket change. The Greenleafs had more than that. They’d lived within their means, saved, invested a little. She found they’d had college funds for their children, and had started the same for their grandchildren.

No gambling, no out-of-line expenses. The biggest hit in twelve months, a beach house one-week rental on the Jersey Shore slated for mid-August.

Family, she thought again. The foundation of their lives, and the core. When her ’link signaled, she read a text from Webster.

I’m sorry about Lansing. He’s always had a hair trigger, but it’s worse since his wife left him a couple years ago. No excuse.

Wanted you to know we’re going in to see Martin in a few minutes. If I can tag you when we have, that would be a good time for you to talk to the family.

She answered with a simple: Tag me when they’re ready.

Then, because she could neither eliminate them as suspects nor upgrade them, she started deeper dives on Arnez and Robards.

Denzel Robards, born in Queens, single mother, two younger siblings— both female. Minor bumps, juvenile, then the dropped assault charges. Graduated from high school and did two years in a trade school to receive certification in vehicle mechanics.

Employed at Kenner’s Auto Repair and Body Shop, Queens, nearly thirteen years. Part-time through high school. Last five years as head mechanic, solid salary.

And still, Eve thought, a long daily commute since he moved to Lower West Manhattan. He’d boosted his certifications every two or three years. He carried them for commercial vehicles, heavy equipment, motorcycles.

With that experience and training, she imagined he could land a job as head mechanic pretty much anywhere.

She made a note. Loyalty. And circled it.

As she dug she found he used part of that solid salary to buy what they termed classic cars, then rebuilt and restored them, sold them.

He pulled in an impressive income there.

And it appeared he used part of that to add to his mother’s income as shift manager and head server at an eatery in Queens. He’d also contributed to the cost of tuition for both his sisters, and helped pay for the elder sister’s wedding two years prior.

She made a second note. Family.

His finances looked clear—biggest expenses, the old cars and the parts needed to restore them. But he made a good profit on those investments, at least to her eye.

She didn’t have to make a note to remember to have Roarke dig yet deeper into those finances and transactions.

No marriages, one cohab when he was twenty-four—with Diane Zed.

Lasted eleven months.

No criminal bumps since the dropped assault charges.

More, she had to admit, no connection to be found with Greenleaf. No indication they’d met before Robards and Arnez moved into the building.

And no choice but to bump him down on the suspect list. But she gave Arnez another push.

Born in Brooklyn Heights, only child, parents divorced when she was nine. Father relocated to Colorado, where he remarried, had one offspring, divorced, then relocated to Alaska.

Mother relocated, taking Arnez, to the Lower West, got a job as a secretary in a law firm—tax and estate law primarily. Went back to school

—night school—worked her way to paralegal.

No second marriage there, but a ten-year cohab. Relocated with same to Atlanta.

Arnez graduated NYU business college—primarily remote option. Employed as sales clerk—part-time at Fashionista, eighteen months, high school years. Part-time at Gloria’s—later high school years. Part-time at In Style, college years. Part-time at Be Bougie, assistant manager, twenty months, more college years. Full-time at La La, assistant manager, twenty- three months. Full-time, co-manager, Opulence, sixteen months. And since, manager, Très Belle.

Stepping stones, Eve judged, moving up, steady salary increases with every step, and classier, higher-end shops along with it.

So ambitious, smart, practical. Couldn’t fault any of that. No marriages for Arnez, no cohabs on record until Robards. No criminal.

Her biggest expenses, by far, wardrobe.

Add a trip to Paris shortly after college. Not a great deal of travel since. Jersey Shore, the Hamptons, what she took to be a winter vacation in

Mexico.

Nothing out of line with her income and lifestyle.

No connection that showed to Greenleaf prior to moving into the building with Robards.

That left, again, means and opportunity, but no motive.

She’d have Roarke check the finances, but Arnez bumped down on the list.

Time to change her focus.

She hit the interoffice. “Peabody, send me whatever you have so far on the dead/incarcerated cop list connected to Greenleaf.”

“Can do. I haven’t gotten very far, but I’ll tag up McNab, have him send you his. I’m working on altogether dead. He’s on incarcerated.”

“That’ll do.”

While she waited, she got more coffee, sat to study her board.

She had to clear the other women Beth Greenleaf met with. She didn’t see it, but they’d known—or rather, expected—Greenleaf would be alone. They likely knew about the windows, and any one of them could have dropped in at some point, unlocked the bedroom window.

She’d run them already, and they’d come up clean. Unless you counted Darlie Tanaka’s numerous arrests in protests about a half century earlier.

Tanaka and Beth Greenleaf were the closest in age.

Anja Abbott came in at age sixty-three and Cassidy Bryer at thirty-six.

That put Arnez at the youngest of the group at twenty-eight.

Just what, Eve wondered, did the under-thirty, ambitious manager of a high-dollar fashion boutique have in common with the over-seventy, recently retired teacher and wife of a retired cop? Or the former (maybe) protestor now owner/operator of Another Chance, a nonprofit that assisted the displaced and disenfranchised in finding housing and employment, while providing clothing, food, legal aid, and education opportunities?

Or the pediatrician, who, Eve learned on the background check, volunteered twelve hours a month in Louise Dimatto’s free clinic.

Or the photographer, currently professional parent, with two kids—ages four and two.

Then again, look who she ended up with in the friendship pool. Mavis, former grifter now singing sensation, mother of one and one in the oven.

The aforementioned Louise, doctor, rich girl, free clinic founder married to a former LC—now sex therapist.

Nadine, of course, crime reporter with her own screen show, author, Oscar winner.

Peabody, Free-Ager, smart-ass, solid cop with it. But it made sense to form friendships with a partner. As she had with Feeney.

McNab had snuck his way into the pool. Not just because he clearly loved her partner. Maybe she didn’t understand his e-speak even half the time, and never understood his wardrobe. But he stood up, never bitched about extra work she often tossed his way in EDD.

Cher Reo, but that made sense, too. Under the Southern drawl and soft looks lived an ass-kicking APA.

Add Mira, though she’d never anticipated having a close, personal relationship with a shrink—especially the top shrink in the NYPSD. Then Mr. Mira, so much sharper than those dreamy green eyes indicated. And he could make her go butter soft inside.

Morris, but that made sense, too.

You didn’t have to be friends with associates, and sometimes it complicated things. But she had what she had.

Would she count her bullpen? Yeah. Not that she wouldn’t kick any one of their asses when needed.

And Roarke because beyond the insanity of love, they had a genuine friendship.

So okay, people could and did form relationships, attachments, friendships with others that on the surface showed no special common ground. But there had to be something under the surface to cement the bond.

A strongly fused bond could, and often did, convince someone to act well outside of their comfort zone. Or cover the act of another. To find ways to justify misdeeds.

Even murder. Something to factor in.

But now, as her comp signaled incomings, she set it aside to look at cops.

She started with what Peabody called her altogether dead list. Given the span of Greenleaf’s career, it made a long list.

Cops investigated—some cited, disciplined, others charged with crimes.

Still others cleared.

For now, she set aside the natural causes and ruled accidentals. They’d need a look, but down the road.

She started on the generous handful who’d died in prison.

Bad cops, dirty cops. Cops who’d killed, maimed, destroyed lives, betrayed other cops.

And paid for it.

She picked through, one by one, looking for any current or recent connection to the Greenleafs. A spouse or partner, a relative, a lover, another cop.

And started her own list with possibles.

From there she looked at cops who’d done time or were still doing time.

A few more possibles.

She took a closer look at the former Detective Serene Brenner. Brenner had climbed the ranks to detective, worked Illegals out of the three-eight in the Lower West.

And according to the file had helped herself to some of the product, cashing in, accepting bribes—cash or product—from dealers. To feed a gambling addiction.

In the end, to try to cover her tracks, she cornered the weasel who’d given her up, broke his fingers, and threatened to do worse to his mother.

Though he recanted, or tried to, Greenleaf convinced him to testify.

Brenner took a plea, got eight to ten, and served six.

She’d been out for two, and now worked as a live-in counselor for a center for former female inmates.

“Just a few blocks from the captain’s apartment,” Eve mumbled. “Let’s put you top of today’s list.”

She’d moved on to the next when her ’link signaled. Webster.

We’re back, at Carlie’s place—Beth’s daughter. The whole family’s here, so it would be a good time.

On our way.

She gathered what she needed, shot the work she’d done to her home office in case she didn’t get back.

In the bullpen she noted the newly minted detective sergeant and his partner had caught one, and Baxter and his were back.

“Splat?” Eve said.

“Yeah.” Baxter kicked back at his desk. “Guy got caught cheating on his wife—and not for the first time. They got into it—and not for the first time. He busted her nose, blackened her eye.”

“And not for the first time.”

“Got the medical history to back that up. She cops to giving him a good shove, states he went backward over a chest under the window and just kept going. The window was open, screen broken already. We’ve got that at the lab to confirm, but it looked like it.

“After he went splat, she called it in. She’s claiming self-defense. We could push for Man Three, but hell, Dallas, we wouldn’t get it.”

“I believed her,” the earnest Trueheart said from his desk. “And the neighbors confirmed he’d tuned her up before.”

“Might’ve left the window open for this eventuality,” Eve considered. “Hard to make that stick.”

“Yeah. I’m not going to say she’s grieving for the cheating bastard,” Baxter added, “but she was shook. And maybe she got him to throw those punches first, for this eventuality. But he threw them. She came home— works the night shift—and the guy’s side piece is just leaving the apartment. We confirmed that, too. They got into it first, and the side piece ran off. Doesn’t read premeditated.”

“Write it up. Peabody, with me.”

“Hey, we heard about Jenkinson’s promotion. We got us a detective sergeant.”

“And where is he?”

“A couple of out-of-work bad boys playing pool in a bar. Knocked more than a few back, then got into it over the game. Got into it so the one bashed the other to death with his cue.”

“That’s one way to spend your afternoon. Let’s go, Peabody.”