Promises in Death

by J. D. Robb

  Eve kept her hand on her weapon while her ears rang with wails and screams. “That’s not possible. Nothing that small can make those sounds.”

  But she followed the sounds to the parlor, where a pajama-clad Mavis walked a shrieking, red-faced Bella.

  “Hey!” Mavis walked, patted, swayed. “You’re back. Sorry, she’s a little fussy.”

  “It sounds like she’s being hacked up with an axe.” More, Eve thought, like she wanted to hack somebody else up with an axe.

  “She’s got good lungs.”

  Eve jolted as Mira—a Mira in a peacock blue robe—rose from the sofa. “Here, sweetie, let me take her awhile. Come to Aunt Charley, baby girl. Yes, there we are.”

  “Whew.” Mavis grabbed a mug off the table, glugged. “I brought her down here to keep from breaking eardrums upstairs. She sure is pissed.”

  “Why? What did you do? That can’t be normal. You’re a doctor,” Eve added, pointing at Mira. “You should do something.”

  “I am.” Mira walked, stroked, crooned. “She’s just teething and feeling mad, aren’t you, poor thing? Poor Belle. I bet you could use some coffee.”

  “I bet she could,” Eve muttered.

  Mavis rose, handing Mira some pink-and-blue device that Mira plugged in Belle’s mouth, then Mavis poured another mug of coffee. “Here you go. Peabody?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  Since whatever Belle gnawed on took the shrieks down to sucking sounds and whimpers, Eve drank. “So . . . everybody else is asleep.”

  “As far as I know,” Mavis told her. “Some conked downstairs watching vids. Others crawled off to their assigned rooms. Everyone had a mega-blast. Sorry you got called away.”

  Eve kept a wary eye on Belle, whose eyes were going glassy as she sucked. “Is that thing tranq’d? Is it legal?”

  “No, it’s not tranq’d; yes, it’s legal. It’s cold. The cold makes her inflamed gums feel better.” Mira stroked Belle’s cheek with her own. “She’s worn herself out. Haven’t you, sweetheart, just worn yourself out. The call was connected to the Coltraine case?”

  “Yeah, one of our prime suspects is in the morgue.” Eve stayed braced, in case the baby decided to erupt again. “Callendar hit hot on Omega. I’m waiting to hear back from her. I’ve got a couple of lines to look down. I could . . . I’ll go up.”

  “Do you want my input?”

  “It can wait.”

  “I can take her.” Mavis moved over, reached for Belle. “She’s about ready to go down again. Poor little Belly Button, Mommy’s got you. Thanks,” she said to Mira.

  “I loved it.”

  Baffled, because the statement seemed sincere, Eve started upstairs. “Reo’s still here, isn’t she?”

  “Yes. She went up to bed about two, I think. Are you looking for input from the ADA, too?”

  “At some point, yeah.”

  “Why don’t I go get her?”

  “It could wait . . . But why should it? Yeah, why don’t you go get her?” Eve continued up to her office, and glanced back at Peabody. “I said you could have a couple hours.”

  “I’m awake. And I’m hungry. I’m going to get some breakfast stuff out, if we’re going to have a consult. You looking for protein or carbs?”

  “Whatever.” Eve turned into her office. She went straight to her board and updated it. As she started to run probabilities, Peabody set a plate and a fresh mug of coffee on her desk.

  “Bacon and eggs seemed right. Dr. Mira, how about some breakfast? I’m serving it up.”

  “Oh. That’s an idea.” Mira came in, walked to the board. “Whatever Eve’s having is fine.” She studied the dead photo of Sandy. “One wound?”

  “Yes. One stick, dead in the heart.”

  “Personal again. Close work. Different weapon, different methodology than Coltraine, but the same sentiment, if you will. He likes to watch then die. Likes to be connected. Businesslike about it, but not removed.”

  “Killing’s business for cops. You could say.”

  “Leaving him naked. Humiliation, as with using Coltraine’s own weapon on her, taking it and her badge from the scene.”

  “I guess so.” It threw her for a moment—and Eve realized it shouldn’t have—to see the woman who’d been cuddling and soothing a screaming baby one minute coolly profiling a killer the next.

  “It’s a cover-up, a way to make it look like he got rolled and done,” Eve continued. “Like taking Coltraine’s jewelry, her wallet, were or could be interpreted as a cover-up, to make it initially appear as robbery. But the humiliation follows. It’s a benefit. He was covered with ratty blankets, dirty clothes, filthy tarps.”

  “The killer disliked him, found him of little worth. Easily disposed of.”

  “Ricker likes to dispose of people who outlive their usefulness to him.”

  “Ricker may have ordered the murder, but the person who carried it out would—or certainly could—choose the method. The time, the place. Thank you, Peabody.” Mira sat with the plate Peabody brought her. “You’re focused on Coltraine’s squad. Let’s look at them.”

  “I smell food.” Cher Reo, disheveled in pajamas covered with yellow daisies stopped on her way into the room to sniff the air. “And coffee. Food and coffee, please.”

  “I can be the waitress.” Mavis followed Reo into the room. “Belle’s sleeping, and I’m starved. I feel like French toast.”

  “Mmm,” Reo said. “French toast.”

  “I’ll make it two. Hey, Nadine, want to be a threesome with French toast?”

  “I’d be a fool not to. Who got killed?” Nadine demanded as she strolled in. “Mira wouldn’t spill.”

  “Jesus, go away,” Eve ordered, but resisted yanking at her hair. Or Nadine’s. “I’m working.”

  “I’ll keep it off the record.” Nadine grabbed a slice of bacon from Eve’s plate. “I can help. We’re the smart girls. Let’s solve some crime!”

  When she reached for Eve’s mug, Eve grabbed her wrist. “There’ll be another murder if you touch my coffee.”

  “I’ll go get my own.” But she walked to the board first, and found Sandy’s photo. “One in the heart. No muss, no fuss.”

  Eve frowned as Nadine strolled to the kitchen. The hell of it was, they were the smart girls.

  “Okay, all right. Reo, shut the damn door before somebody else wanders in here.” Then she blew out a breath when Louise did just that.

  “I couldn’t sleep so . . . oh, French toast!”

  “She’s a smart girl,” Nadine pointed out, and went over to shut the door herself. “Mavis, Louise wants French toast. We’re helping Dallas on a case.”

  Eve resisted—barely—the urge to beat her head against the desk. “Everybody just sit down and shut up. Nadine, I don’t want anything in here on-air, unless I clear it. And I don’t want to see any of it in a damn book.”

  “I won’t air anything without your go-ahead. As to the book? Hmmm, interesting.”

  “I mean it. Louise, you take your medi-van down to Pearl, don’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Have you ever treated a couple of scavengers called Kip and Bop.”

  “As I matter of fact I have. They—”

  “You can stay. I might have questions. Reo, let me tell you about this guard on Omega.”

  Since they were, Eve started on the eggs while she summed up Cecil Rouche’s connection to Ricker.

  19

  IT WAS RIDICULOUS, BRIEFING A BUNCH OF women—mostly civilians at that—on murder. Women in pajamas, Eve thought as she ran it through for Reo. Women in pajamas eating French toast and nibbling on bacon.

  Smart girls, okay. But still. Other than Peabody, Reo, and Mira, what did they know about cop work? She could stretch it for Nadine, she supposed. Working the crime beat gave Nadine some insight. And she could be trusted not to put a story ahead of ethics. That was something.

  Maybe Louise wasn’t so far out of the box. As a doctor, she’d treated plenty of victims. As for
Mavis, she knew the streets, which didn’t really apply here. But she was basically serving coffee anyway.

  What the hell.

  “So, you want to make a deal with Rouche, give him incentive to flip on Max Ricker—and his New York contact who you believe killed both Coltraine and Sandy.”

  “Yeah. If Rouche has the name.”

  “If he has it,” Reo agreed. “And to pressure him to flip on Max Ricker as the orchestrator of the murders. Ricker, who’s already serving multiple life sentences in the toughest penal facility we have. We can’t do any more to him, in any real sense, but Rouche, an accessory before and after, possibly conspiracy to murder—he’d pay for it. If Callendar gets you what you hope, you’d have enough for that, and enough to push him to giving you the name of the actual killer—if he has it.”

  “That’s not the point. If Ricker pushed the button, and he damned well did, he has to be held accountable.” Eve couldn’t—wouldn’t—budge on that single point. “Charged, tried, and convicted of these two murders. One of them a cop. Maybe a couple more life sentences added on doesn’t mean anything, practically. But they matter. It matters for Coltraine.”

  “The law may not be able to make him pay, in any real sense, more than he already is.” Louise looked to the murder board, and Coltraine’s photo. “But if he isn’t held accountable, it’s not justice, is it? Two people are dead because he wanted them dead.”

  “Justice also includes the families and those who loved the victims,” Mira added. “They’re entitled to it.”

  Reo blew out a breath. “I don’t disagree, and I’ll have to pull all that out—and more—to convince my boss to take this metaphorical slap at Ricker, and let another fish off the line to do it. But he doesn’t walk on this, Dallas. Rouche and the tech, they don’t walk.”

  “I don’t want them to. Accepting and exchanging bribes, tampering with security, falsifying documents, money laundering. We can pin his ex-wife, too, which adds more pressure. He’ll do cage time, but I’m betting Rouche will consider a stretch of ten a gift against life.”

  “Charge him with conspiracy to commit,” Reo projected, “then deal it down. I’ll take it to my boss if you get what we need. But that deal’s going to depend on what Rouche brings to the table. Do you think he knows the name of the killer?”

  “The actual identity, no. I figure he went through Sandy. But he may know enough to narrow the field. And he may know enough to help us plug up the funnel Ricker’s using to fund his operation. If he’s got one cop in his pocket still, he’s probably got more.”

  “You’re sure it’s a cop?” Nadine asked.

  “Not only a cop, but one of Coltraine’s squad.” She ordered data on her wall screen. “Delong, Vance, her lieutenant. Authority figure who likes to keep things low-key. Family man. Twenty years in, with more administrative interests and skills than investigative. He rarely works in the field, but does so on occasion.”

  “He prefers a steady flow,” Mira said when Eve nodded to her. “While he does possess solid leadership qualities, he’s better suited to running this small squad than he might be in helming a larger, more complex department.”

  “O’Brian, Patrick. Detective,” Eve continued. “The senior man in the squad. Experience. Claims he prefers the slower pace of his squad to the work he used to do. His personal relationship with Coltraine is reputed to be a kind of father-daughter deal. With the way the squad’s set up, he—and the others—would partner up when Delong paired them.”

  “He would be, in my opinion, the most trusted member of the squad. The others respected him,” Mira added. “My read of the files and Dallas’s notes indicated that the squad trusted his opinion more than their lieutenant’s. He’s the team leader.”

  “Coltraine wouldn’t have questioned him,” Peabody said. “If he contacted her, told her he needed her on a case, a follow-up, any kind of op, she’d have done exactly what we believe she did that night. Get her weapons, walk out to meet him. But . . . Well, he looked really sad at her memorial. And his wife came. It felt sincere.”

  “Sometimes, for some, killing’s just business,” Eve said.

  “True.” Mira nodded in agreement. “And that business can be held separate from sincerity. Cops separate their emotions very often. One with his longevity could potentially commit the act, as a job to be done, and regret the loss of a friend or coworker. He has the maturity needed for the control of the kills, and the experience. But the personal elements of the acts don’t quite fit his profile, again in my opinion. The humiliation of both victims.”

  “It may have been part of the orders,” Louise suggested. “Part of the assignment.”

  “True enough,” Mira admitted.

  “He wouldn’t have used ‘cunt.’ In the message to me.” Eve studied O’Brian’s face. “It’s too crude for his type. ‘Bitch’ but not ‘cunt.’ Plus I don’t think he’d have screwed up the tail on me. He’s too experienced. Delong would have, but not O’Brian. At this point, he’s last on my list.”

  She brought up the next. “Clifton, Dak, Detective. Now, he’d use ‘cunt.’ And he’d screw up a tail. He’s cocky, full of himself, and not nearly as good as he thinks he is. Youngest male in the squad, thinks he’s a ladies’ man, and hit on Coltraine. She deflected.”

  “Guys hate that.” Nadine cut another piece of French toast. “Killing’s a little extreme, but they hate that.”

  “There are elements of anger in the killings,” Mira pointed out. “That need, or that enjoyment, in the close-up kill. The delay in killing Coltraine, so she’d know what was coming. The humiliation again. I would expect from his type to have signs of some sexual abuse. If not actual rape, some molestation. Proving his power over her.”

  “He may have done so without leaving a mark, a sign.” Louise considered the data. “Touching her, or verbal abuse. You don’t think it’s him,” she said to Eve. “Why?”

  “I’d like it to be him. He’s a prick. But he’s a hothead, with a jacket that lists excessive force, insubordination. Ricker tends to go for smarter, cooler. Then again, he might’ve been all Ricker could get in this case. He’s not out of it, he’s just not top of my list.”

  She moved on. “Newman, Josh, Detective. Light touch, takes it easy. Keeps his head down and does the job.”

  “He’s not top of your list either.” Mavis stood at the board, a plate in her hand. “It’s the woman.” She ate another bite, turned to where Eve sat. “It’s got to be the woman. She’s the best fit.”

  “Why?” Nadine wanted to know.

  “Well, jeez, Coltraine might’ve respected her lieutenant, and the old guy. She maybe liked the asshole okay, even if she brushed him back. Because, hey, Morris and she had good taste. Maybe she got on fine with this last guy, too. But she and this one? Only women in the club, right? They’re going to have a different kind of thing. Women say shit to each other and talk about stuff they don’t with penises. Look at us. Sorry,” she said abruptly to Mira. “Stepping on your spot.”

  “No, it’s interesting. Your idea is that Cleo Grady killed Coltraine because they were women.”

  “I just figure she’d get closer than the others, know more about what the what was when Coltraine was off—you know, the R&R time. Like she’s not going to tell the asshole she’s got her period and wants a hot bath, or the old guy how she’s got the hornies and can’t wait to jump Morris. Like that. This one probably knew all that.”

  “And would’ve known, more than the others, that she’d be home alone that night.” Nadine pursed her lips. “Good one, Mavis.”

  Mavis grinned, shrugged. “Okay,” she said to Eve, “am I right or am I wrong?”

  “You win the Smart Girl Award.”

  “Uptown!”

  “Grady’s your prime? You could’ve told me,” Peabody complained.

  “I didn’t bump her up until this morning. She’s cool-headed, but she’s got something under there that runs hot. There’s the ring. Okay, you take it because
you’re playing at making it look like robbery. But you don’t send it back with the badge and weapon. You keep it. A man might do the same, for a trophy. But she likes jewelry—the subtle, classy kind. So it’s an element. Coltraine might’ve told the entire squad she was taking an evening at home alone, but given her type, she was more likely to talk about it with Grady. Plus, she and Grady were working a case together. More opportunity. And the opportunity for Grady to tag her, tell her she had something go hot on the investigation. And Ricker likes using women. He likes using them, hurting them, disposing of them. It’s icing for him to pit one against the other.”