by J. D. Robb
“He trusts me to do the job, but I don’t know if he’ll ever forgive me if doing it proves her dirty. It pisses me off I have to care about that. I wouldn’t have to care if . . .”
“You didn’t care.”
“That’s the bitch.” She pushed up. “Thanks.”
“Anything you need on this, anytime. I’ve cleared it.”
Eve stepped out, started back to Homicide. To do whatever the job demanded.
9
THE PROBLEM WITH BEING THE SON OF A NOTORIOUS criminal was that it was a lot easier for cops to obtain search warrants. With one in hand, and a small battalion of cops behind her, Eve entered Alex Ricker’s penthouse for the second time.
The fact that he had a trio of lawyers with him didn’t surprise her. The head guy, who identified himself as Henry Proctor, gave off the impression of elder statesman with his flow of white hair, craggy face, conservative dark suit. She imagined his rich, baritone voice had echoed through many courtrooms, sculpting the law like a chisel on marble to defend his high-collar clients.
“My client is fully prepared to cooperate with the police in this matter, to the letter of the law.”
“You can read this letter of the law.” Eve offered the warrant. “We’re authorized to search the premises, and to confiscate and examine all data and communication devices, including portables and personals.”
“One of Mr. Ricker’s legal counsel or staff will observe every level of the execution of the warrant. Which will be conducted on record. Mr. Ricker will also exercise his right to record the search and confiscation. He will make no statement, and will not be questioned at this time.”
“Fine by me. Captain Feeney.”
It wasn’t usual for the head of EDD to assist in the execution of a warrant. But Eve wanted no mistakes—and Feeney had wanted in. She nodded to her former partner, her trainer.
His basset-hound face remained sober. She wondered if she were the only one in the room who knew how much he was enjoying himself. Any slap at a Ricker gave the day a little shine.
“Okay, boys and girls, you know the drill.” He stepped forward, a contrast to the slick and polished in his rumpled suit and worn-in shoes. “Receipts will be issued for any equipment and devices removed.”
“An estimated time of return would be appreciated. This causes considerable inconvenience.”
Feeney scratched his head through his wiry thatch of ginger and silver hair. “Depends, don’t it?”
“Detective Baxter, you and your team will begin the search on the third floor. Officer Carmichael, take this level. Peabody,” Eve added, “we’ll take the second floor.”
She wanted the bedrooms, the private spaces, the areas of intimacy. Even people who knew better generally felt safest in the place they slept, had sex, dressed, undressed. It was, in Eve’s mind, the most likely spot for Alex to have made a mistake, to have forgotten something that could tie him to Coltraine’s murder.
They didn’t speak. She’d already informed the team, down to the lowest uniformed drone, that everything they said, everything they did, every expression, gesture, and sneeze could and would be on record. And could and would be used by the lawyers to question both the procedure and the intent of the search and seize.
“We’ll start with Mr. Ricker’s bedroom,” she told Rod Sandy.
He stood behind them, disapproval in every line of his face and body. He turned out of the airy, second-floor parlor and into the spacious master suite.
Alex knew how to live, Eve mused. The parlor spilled into a tidy office/sitting room with a black glass work counter holding mini-units. A matching wet bar, a couple of club chairs, and an entertainment screen filled in the blanks. Knowing Roarke’s fondness for panels, she ran her fingers over the walls.
“This is what you’re looking for.” Sandy stepped behind the wet bar, opened a panel. Inside, a cabinet held wine and liquor. “We’ll cooperate, Lieutenant,” he said, disdain dripping, “so you’ll finish this invasion and get out.”
“So noted.” Eve mirrored Sandy’s tone, and with her eyes on his, added to the team, “Check for others.”
She moved on with Peabody.
The man liked space, she decided. The bedroom sprawled, one wall fully glassed to open to the terrace and the city beyond. Alex could enjoy his morning coffee or evening brandy while sitting at the bistro table or reclining on the gel-sofa. An antique desk held another mini d and c. Mirrors reflected back the watered silk walls, and the enormous four-poster bed.
In silence, Sandy moved around the room, opening panels for another bar, an AutoChef, screens. Eve wandered, scanned the dressing area with its racks and drawers and counter—and thought she might, finally, have hit on someone with as many clothes as Roarke. And into the luxury of the marble and stone bath.
This was going to take a while.
“Roll up your sleeves, Peabody. Let’s get started.”
It took a man with brains and some experience to carefully, even meticulously remove anything remotely incriminating from his domain and leave the personal.
She found condoms and sex toys, various lotions billed to enhance the sexual experience. Nothing that crossed the legal lines. She found an army of grooming and hygiene products that told her Alex gave a great deal of thought and time to his appearance.
But vanity wasn’t a crime.
His wardrobe told her he preferred and could afford natural fibers and personal tailoring, that even his casual dress was meticulous in style. She found he liked soothing colors and comfort, preferred boxers over briefs—and unless his bedtime reading was a plant for her benefit, he liked spy novels.
What she didn’t find in his bedroom was a personal pocket computer.
“I’m not finding a PPC, Rod.”
He stood, soldier-straight, arms folded. “I’d assume Mr. Ricker would have his on his person.”
“And not have one at his bedside? Strikes me as odd. Doesn’t it strike you as odd, Peabody, that Mr. Ricker wouldn’t have a handy PPC at his bedside, where he could work in bed when the mood struck, check the box scores, send an e-mail, whatever?”
“It does strike the odd note, Lieutenant.”
“Would it be against the laws of this state not to own two personal computers?” Sandy said coolly.
“Nope, just that odd note.”
She walked out, through the parlor, opened a door. Inside she found what looked to be a small guest room. Bed, screen, tiny kitchenette. She crossed over to another black glass counter. On it sat a vase of fresh flowers and a decorative bowl.
“Another odd note. This looks like a work counter, like the one in the master suite. The kind that usually holds equipment. And instead, we’ve got flowers.”
She took a deliberate sniff. “Pretty.”
“I don’t believe flowers are against the law, either.”
“No, but we’re racking up the odd notes, Rod. Like why there’s a palm plate on this door. Extra security on this room.”
“Mr. Ricker initially considered making it his office, then decided against it.”
“Uh-huh.” She stepped up to a narrow chest of drawers, began opening it. “And this looks brand, spanking new. Like it’s never been used. Like maybe it was just put in here. Don’t get much company?”
His smile hit a perfect middle between sour and smug. “We’re redecorating.”
“Yeah, I bet.” She gestured Peabody to the single closet while she stepped into the adjoining bath.
Compact, efficient, scrupulously clean. But she’d bet it had been used. Just as she’d bet the equipment once housed in the “guest room” had been transferred to another location very, very recently.
“Oh, hey, Rod? There’s this other odd note. The one where you told me you and Alex spent the night in—that would be the night Detective Coltraine was murdered—and Alex told me he went out.”
“I assumed Alex was in.”
“Don’t keep very good tabs on your boss for a PA, do you, Rod?”
He bristled; she enjoyed it. “I don’t keep tabs on Alex. We had dinner in, as I stated. I went upstairs about ten. I wasn’t aware, until he told me this afternoon, that he’d gone out that night. I believe it’s still legal in this country for a man to take a walk and have a beer.”
“Last I checked. So, how’d you get along with Detective Coltraine?”
“We got along very well, though I hadn’t seen her in about a year. I’m sorry for what happened to her and sorry it upsets Alex.”
“You didn’t see her when she came to see him a couple days ago?”
“No. Alex wanted to see her alone. I was up here.”
“You seem to spend a lot of time up here.” She sent him an overly cheerful smile. “Since you do, why don’t we take a look at your quarters, Rod?”
She went through the motions—as much for procedure as to needle the annoying PA—but knew there would be nothing to find. Alex was smart, he had experience, and he’d anticipated the search.
Once it was done, and they were outside, she conferred with Feeney. “Did you see the small bedroom off the big, second-floor parlor?”
“Yeah. Palm plate and voice code on the door. Unless he uses it to hold his sex slaves against their will, I’d say the equipment in there was moved out in the last day or two. And that equipment’s probably unregistered.”
“Funny, I was thinking the same. Except about the possible sex slaves.”
“Guys think about sex slaves more than women do. Probably.”
“I can only suppose. He’d have wiped anything on his equipment.”
“Unless he’s stupid, sure.” Feeney took out the bag of nuts in his pocket, rattled it. Offered it to Eve. “We’ll be able to tell if he wiped, maybe find the echoes.”
Because they were there, she took a couple of sugared almonds, crunched. “But if he had unregistered, he’d have kept anything incriminating on that.”
“Unless, again, stupid.”
“I guess it was too much to hope we’d find Coltraine’s ring tucked into a box in his sock drawer.”
“Worth a shot. Guy’s got the shady on him.” Feeney jutted a chin toward the building. “Slicked over more than his old man, but he’s got the shady on him.”
“Yeah, he does. But shady’s a leap away from cop killer. I’m going to work from home. You get anything, I want to hear about it.”
“Back at you. I didn’t know the lady, but she was a badge. And there’s Morris. You got EDD, and me, round the clock until we put this one away.”
She walked over to Peabody, who was in a huddle with her cohab, McNab, and his EDD pal, Callendar.
McNab stood jingling whatever would jingle in two of the pockets of his maxicargo fire-red pants. His blond hair was braided back from his thin, pretty face to hang down the back of his lightweight daffodil-yellow jacket. Beside him, Callendar was a busty explosion of color in a zigzag-patterned T-shirt, floppy overshirt, and glossy pants.
“Pizza hits all the notes.” Callendar chomped on gum so her jaw movements sent the huge triangles dangling from her ears jumping. “You buy.”
“I’m on for pizza, but the tab’s a grab.” McNab held out a fist, and Eve’s eyes narrowed as the two e-detectives went through the first round of Rock Paper Scissors.
“Gee, I’m sorry to interrupt playtime, but there’s this pesky chore of hunting down a cop killer.”
“We’re on it.” McNab turned earnest green eyes to hers. “We’re going to hunker down in the pen. We’re just settling on the fuel and the buy.”
“I cleared the night for it, Lieutenant,” Callendar told her. “But you gotta prime the pump. We took eight desk units, twelve wall, and sixteen portables out of those digs. Anything on there bouncing to Detective Coltraine, we’re going to find it.”
But pumps had to be primed. Eve dug into her own pockets. “Pizza’s on me. Peabody, I’m working from home. You can coordinate the search-and-seizure results, log it all in. Cross all the t’s. After that, choose where you’re most useful.”
“Got that. One thing.” She quick-stepped with Eve toward Eve’s vehicle. “If Ricker and company hauled equipment or anything out of there, it should be on the building’s security discs. So we should—”
“I’ve got them. I’m going to scan them at home.”
“Oh.” Peabody’s face registered mild disappointment. “I guess I should’ve figured you’d think of it. I just didn’t want to say anything about it while we were inside, and on record.”
“It’s good you thought of it.”
“Well. Oh, and one more thing. If you think we should reschedule Louise’s bridal shower and all, I can take care of it.”
“Crap.” Eve pushed a hand through her hair. “I forgot about it.” Again. “No, just leave it. We’ll see. If you talk to Nadine about that, and she uses it to try to pump you—”
“The investigation is active and ongoing. We’re pursuing all leads. Blah, blah.”
“Okay then.” Eve climbed into her car.
She made the tail within three blocks. In fact, it was so sloppy a shadow, she felt insulted.
Late-model, nondescript black sedan. Tinted windows. New York plates. She noted the plate numbers, turned to add a few blocks to her drive home. The sedan made the turn, huddled back two car lengths. She considered pulling over, seeing if her tail would follow suit to drive past, then scramble to double back.
Instead, she allowed herself to be caught at the next light while the river of pedestrians flowed in front of her. Why would Ricker hire such a shitty tail? she wondered. A man with his connections, his reach ought to be able to put someone with more skill, and more technology on her.
A homer on her car—or at the least a three-point tail that could mix it up. In this traffic, she might’ve missed it. Stupid, amateur move, she decided. Maybe she’d drive around awhile, waste their time, see if they’d swing up close enough so she could use her car to barricade then roust them.
Meanwhile, she might as well find out who owned the sedan.
She engaged her dash comp. “Run vehicle registration, New York. Eight, six, three, Zulu, Bravo, Echo.”
Acknowledged. Working . . .
When the light turned, she eased across the crosswalk, flicked a glance in the rearview.
She caught the van out of the corner of her eye. Pinned by cross traffic, she had nowhere to turn. As it barrelled down on her, she punched the accelerator and hit vertical.
“Come on, you piece of shit. Come on.” For an instant, she thought she might make it, but the speeding van caught her sluggishly-lifting rear wheels. The impact slapped her back in the seat. As the car spun, executed a clumsy nosedive toward Madison Avenue, it filled with safety gel.
She thought: Fuck. And crashed.
She heard it—sounds muffled by the gel—the smash, crunch, screech. She went into another sloping three-sixty as the car that had been directly behind her at the light slammed her front fender. Or more accurately, she slammed it. Despite the gel, she felt the jolt slap through her whole body.
Dizzy, disoriented, she shoved out of the car, fumbled for her weapon. People thronged around her, with everyone talking at once through the bells gonging in her head.
“Get back, stay back. I’m a cop.” She rushed toward the wrecked van. Her quick scan showed her the sedan, streaming sedately up Madison.
Gone, baby. Gone.
Blood in her eye, literally and figuratively, she approached the door of the van, leading with her weapon. And found the cab empty.
“They ran!” One of the eager witnesses shouted it at her. “Two men. I saw them run that way.” The witness pointed east, toward Park.
“I think one was a woman,” another witness weighed in. “God, they just rammed you, then took off.”
“They were white guys.”
“One was Hispanic.”
“They had dark hair.”
“One was blond.”
Eve carved through the helpful crowd, yanke
d open the rear doors. In disgust, she studied the surveillance equipment.
The tail hadn’t been stupid and sloppy. She had.
She yanked out her communicator. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, officer-involved vehicular, Madison and . . . Seventy-fourth. Require assistance.” She elbowed her way back to the car that had hit her after she’d crashed. A woman sat inside, blinking.
“Ma’am? Ma’am? Are you injured?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think.” With glassy eyes and pinprick pupils, the woman stared at her. “What happened?”
