Aquarium

by Steven Henry

  “That’s because he doesn’t,” Erin said.

  “That’s what you think. Every guy cheats.”

  Webb stood up. “I think we’re done here.”

  Erin followed suit. “Not everybody’s like you,” she said to Schilling. “Thank God.”

  “I need a shower,” Erin said as she and her commanding officer walked back up to Major Crimes.

  “With bleach,” Webb agreed. “I left LA to get away from people like that.”

  “But you didn’t turn in your shield, sir. We meet people like that every shift.”

  Webb ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Good point. You know, sometimes I get frustrated because we don’t have enough suspects.”

  “And now we’ve got too many,” she said. “I don’t think Schilling and Polk were working together.”

  “No. Both of them are solo acts. Good work getting Schilling to confess to the abuse. If it turns out he’s our guy, that’ll play well in court.”

  “Yeah,” Erin said. “Except I’m not sure he’s our guy. Same with Polk.”

  “At least it’s not a series,” Webb said. “Everything points to an accidental overdose.”

  “He’s no serial killer,” she said. “He’s just a rapist. He’s going to keep doing this if we don’t stop him.”

  “I didn’t mean it’s not serious,” Webb said. “I meant… never mind. I’m your commanding officer. I don’t owe you explanations. Why don’t we take lunch. Sometimes I think better on a full stomach. See you in an hour.”

  Erin decided to swing by the Barley Corner to grab a bite to eat. Her appetite had returned full force and she wanted some real food, not cheap takeout or vending-machine crap. Plus, she wanted to check on Carlyle. Her brother had said he was in good shape and was likely to make a full recovery, but the Irishman had come within a whisker of death. Erin didn’t mean to take any chances.

  She and Rolf arrived in the middle of the noon rush. The big-screen TVs were playing a soccer game between teams whose names Erin didn’t recognize. She was troubled but not surprised to see Carlyle among the crowd, accompanied by Corky. Carlyle wasn’t sitting at his usual place at the bar. In deference to his damaged abdominal muscles, he was in a booth where he could rest his back against something more substantial.

  Erin also saw Mickey Connor, flanked by Veronica Blackburn and a pair of rough-looking thugs. They’d cleared a space at the bar. Mickey had a glass of beer in his hand. Everyone else in the place was having a good time watching the game, but Mickey wasn’t smiling and wasn’t watching the television. He was looking at the other people. Veronica had a hand resting on his meaty forearm. She was dolled up in a tight blouse with a very low neckline and a miniskirt over fishnet stockings. She looked like what she was; a former hooker turned madam.

  Mickey’s gaze met Erin’s across the room. His eyebrows drew down, his eyes narrowing slightly. Without turning his attention away from her, he set his glass on the bar behind him, freeing his hands.

  Erin felt a sudden urge to reach for her gun. She’d seen how fast Mickey could move, in spite of his bulk, and she had no doubt he would murder her without a second thought. But she couldn’t whip out her Glock and blast him. He wasn’t threatening her. He probably wasn’t even armed, at least not by the legal definition of the word. She’d heard he carried a roll of quarters in each pocket to add weight to his fists. She thought of trying to explain that to Webb.

  “But sir, he had twenty dollars in change. I had to shoot him!”

  Someone moved in the corner of her vision, ringing all her internal danger alarms. She didn’t want to take her eyes off Mickey, but the movement she’d caught was purposeful, like a predator stalking its prey. She risked a quick glance.

  Her breath whooshed out of her in relief. It was Ian Thompson. He’d picked up on the nonverbal exchange between her and Mickey and was moving their way. His coat was unbuttoned, one hand resting easily inside the lapel in a posture any police officer would recognize. He was holding the grip of a pistol in a shoulder holster.

  Mickey’s eyes flicked Ian’s direction. Ian stopped a few yards to Erin’s left, forming the third point of a triangle. Ian always moved with tactics in mind. He was flanking Mickey so he and Erin could put him in a crossfire if the big ex-boxer tried anything.

  Between Ian on one side of her and Rolf on the other, Erin wasn’t scared of Mickey and his hired muscle. She let herself smile slightly when she looked back at Mickey.

  Your move, she thought.

  Mickey reached back toward the bar, closed his fingers around his glass, picked it up, and took a long, slow drink. He somehow managed to load even that ordinary gesture with menace. It seemed to go on for minutes as he stared at her over the rim of the glass. He didn’t blink.

  Veronica puckered her puffed lips and blew Erin a silent kiss.

  Erin walked past them to Carlyle’s booth, deliberately turning her back. It went against her instincts and experience, but she knew Ian was still watching her six. She needed to show she wasn’t afraid. But deep down, she was. Mickey Connor unsettled her in a visceral, physical way. She could still remember the way he’d grabbed her after the card game at Evan O’Malley’s place, the incredible speed and strength of the man. Erin didn’t like feeling helpless, but she knew if she ever came to close quarters with him again, she’d have no chance at all.

  “Hey, guys,” she said to Carlyle and Corky. She could still feel Mickey’s gaze prickling the back of her neck, but she tried to ignore it. “No, don’t get up. You’re still hurt. Just tell me what’s going on.”

  “Arsenal’s playing Hull City,” Corky said. “Grand game. FA Cup final it is. They think it’s over, and they’re nearly right. Arsenal’s up three-two, and I’ve a tidy sum riding on them, so good luck to the lads.”

  “I’m sure you’re not confessing illegal gambling to a law-enforcement officer,” she said with a smile, sitting down across from them.

  “If you see any coppers, be sure to point them out,” he said cheerfully. “They’ll not get a thing out of me.”

  Erin reached across the table and took one of Carlyle’s hands. “Should you be up and around?” she asked quietly.

  “I need to show the flag,” he said. “And I’ve spent enough time lying about in bed these past days. A football match is just what I’m needing.”

  “Soccer,” Erin gently reminded him. “Football is a totally different sport in America.”

  “Now that’s just mad,” Corky said. “We’re watching a game where the lads hit the ball with their bloody feet. If that’s not football, you can pack me off to Van Dieman’s Land. In what you Yanks call football, how often do the lads’ feet touch the ball?”

  “Kickoff, punting, and field goals,” she said.

  “And what do they hold it with the rest of the time?”

  “Their hands,” Erin admitted.

  “So why don’t you call it handball?” Corky asked triumph-antly.

  “There’s already a sport called handball,” Carlyle said.

  “And there’s a perfectly grand sport called football,” Corky retorted, cocking his head toward the nearest TV screen.

  “Okay, you win,” Erin said. “Football it is.”

  “Bloody Yanks, renaming all our sports,” Corky muttered in mock indignation. “When it comes to sport, your lot are overpaid, oversexed, and overtime.”

  “You’re one to talk about being oversexed,” Carlyle said mildly.

  Erin snorted.

  Caitlin, one of the Corner’s waitresses, came over. Erin ordered a Reuben sandwich and a glass of Guinness. Corky favored Caitlin with a wink and a pat on the behind, which earned him a playful swat with the back of her hand. They had a sometimes-thing going.

  “And how’s the world of policing?” Carlyle asked.

  “Got a weird one,” Erin said. “The victim’s a fashion model. Accidental drug overdose. We think someone tried to slip her a mickey, but something went wrong and she died.”
r />   “That’s unfortunate, but hardly unusual, sad to say,” Carlyle said.

  “He left her floating in the aquarium at a fancy hotel,” she said.

  “That’s a mite odd,” Corky allowed.

  “We’ve got two main suspects,” she went on. “One’s a dirtbag who likes to drug women in bars. We found some of the drug in his possession and he works at the hotel. The other’s her boyfriend. He was abusing her and cheating on her, and he’s a drug dealer on the side, but we don’t know if he had access to Rohypnol.”

  “We had a lad come in here a couple years past, trying his hand with that vile stuff,” Carlyle said.

  “What happened?” Erin asked.

  “Caleb handled the situation.”

  Caleb Carnahan had been the Corner’s previous head of security. He’d been savagely beaten and shot to death only a few days ago. Erin was pretty sure Mickey had done it, but she’d actually taken credit with the Mob for the hit. As far as Evan O’Malley was concerned, she’d had Ian kill Caleb for betraying her and Carlyle. Now Carlyle was suggesting Caleb had… what? She could imagine a number of fates for a man who tried to drug a patron in a Mob bar. None of them were pleasant.

  “We’re missing the camera footage at the hotel,” she continued, deciding not to pursue that line of thought. “Somebody cut the power to that floor for a few minutes.”

  “The killing was an accident, you say?” Carlyle asked.

  “He tried to save her life,” she said. “That’ll help him if it comes to a plea bargain, but it’s still murder.”

  “Aye,” he said thoughtfully. “It just strikes me that thinking to turn off the lights and cameras isn’t characteristic of a lad who’s panicking. This is a careful thinker you’ve got here. I’ll warrant it’s a lad who’s gotten away with things in the past, probably so cleverly he’s not crossed paths with the coppers before.”

  “That doesn’t help us,” Erin said. “I can’t look for suspects on the basis of them not having criminal records.”

  “Do either of these suspects of yours have a history of impulsive, reckless acts?”

  “Both of them,” she said ruefully. “You’re saying both guys sound wrong for this?”

  “You’re saying that,” he said. “You know the situation better than I. Were I looking to solve this, I’d be trying to puzzle out how the lass was drugged, where she was, and what happened to her after. Where was she?”

  “Somewhere in the hotel. She went upstairs with her dinner date to his room. He said she left about eleven.”

  “And you trust this lad?” Carlyle asked.

  “I don’t trust anybody,” she said.

  “There’s our fine lass,” Corky said approvingly. “You’ve been teaching her well, Cars.”

  “We know she left the dinner at the ballroom,” Erin said. “And she probably went to the guy’s room. That’s all we know for sure. At some point she got drugged and her heart stopped. Someone, not a professional, tried to give her CPR. Then that person, or maybe another one, cut the power, smuggled her into a back room, and dumped her body.”

  “What would the lad have needed in order to do that?” Carlyle asked.

  “He’d have needed keys to the electrical room. And to the room with the fish tank.” She paused. “He needed to know the hotel layout. He wouldn’t have had time to figure all of it out once she was dead. He’d have wanted to get rid of the body as fast as possible.”

  “Nay, lass,” Carlyle said. “He needed none of those things. He only needed one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Money.”

  “What does money have to do with this?” she retorted.

  “Everyone’s got a price,” Carlyle said. “Corky, how would you go about disposing of an unexpected corpse in a fancy hotel?”

  “I’d tip the housekeeper extra to get rid of it,” Corky said, without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Are you saying the housekeeper’s in on it?” Erin asked, not sure if he was joking or not.

  “He’s saying it’s easier to pay someone who already knows something, and has access, than to do it all oneself,” Carlyle said. “He’s saying most lads can be bought. You’re not looking for someone with access to the hotel. You’re looking for someone with access to your poor departed colleen. Then you’re looking for someone with the proper keys and knowledge who can be bought. Do you know anyone like that?”

  Erin stood up. “Yeah, I think I do,” she said. “Thanks, guys.”

  “Half a moment, darling,” Carlyle said with a smile. “You’ve a sandwich on the way.”

  “You can’t go saving the city while you’re starving to death,” Corky added. “Your figure’s in no need of dieting.” He gave her an appreciative look. “Join us.”

  Erin’s stomach rumbled, as if on cue. Rolf cocked his head at her. He was in favor of chasing bad guys, but he was also in favor of food.

  She sat down again. “Okay. But then I have to get moving. And leave my figure out of this, Corky.”

  “Never,” Corky said, winking.

  “That’s my woman you’re discussing,” Carlyle said.

  “A lad can look and dream,” Corky said. “Even if he’s not allowed anything more.”

  Chapter 10

  “I’m not coming back to the Eightball, sir,” Erin said into her phone. She was on the road again, behind the wheel of her Charger, after a good but hurried meal.

  “Resigning?” Webb asked wryly.

  “In your dreams, sir,” she said. “I have a lead. I’m going back to the hotel. What if the killer didn’t handle things himself? What if he paid someone on staff to help him?”

  “This wasn’t premeditated,” Webb reminded her.

  “That’s not what I mean. This is an upscale hotel. They handle problems for their guests.”

  “O’Reilly, if you’re suggesting the hotel moved our victim’s corpse as some sort of courtesy…”

  “No, sir. I’m just saying it’s a service industry, and body disposal is a service. At least, that’s how our guy might have seen it. For the right price.”

  “Okay, see what you can find. Keep me posted.”

  Erin arrived at the InterContinental and walked quickly in, Rolf trotting beside her. He’d picked up on her energy and knew they were in the hunt. The K-9’s nostrils twitched in anticipation.

  She found Vic in the security station, still poring over surveillance videos, a white Chinese takeout box and a bottle of Mountain Dew beside him. His face was badly swollen, both his eyes blacked. It was a common symptom of a broken nose. Barry Caldwell was sitting nearby, sipping a cup of coffee.

  “Hey, Vic,” she said. “Crack the case yet?”

  “I’m gonna crack something in a couple minutes,” he said. “I got nothing. Seriously. She gets on the elevator with Stone a little after nine. She doesn’t come back down.”

  “Is there any chance anyone could have manipulated this film?” Erin asked Caldwell.

  “I don’t see how,” he said. “The security station always has a guy on duty. If he has to step away, the door is locked.”

  “So one of your security people could have done it?” she pressed.

  “All my people are good people,” Caldwell said. “Nobody screwed with the film. Look at it!”

  “I’ve been looking at it,” Vic growled. “I’ve got pixels burned into my eyeballs. But I’ve checked the time stamps. No gaps. I’m telling you, our victim doesn’t come down the elevator.”

  “The stairs, then,” Erin said.

  Vic shook his head wearily. “You think I didn’t check them?”

  “Fire escape?” she guessed.

  “Alarms go off if you open the fire doors,” Caldwell said.

  “Of course they do,” Erin said. “Unless someone turns them off. But I suppose you’d need access to security systems to do that.”

  “Exactly what are you suggesting, Detective?” Caldwell asked.

  “I’m suggesting this crime was impo
ssible,” she said, looking him in the eye. “Unless the killer had access to security systems.”

  “My people had nothing to do with this,” he said.

  “I didn’t say that. The killer just would have needed an understanding with someone who could get at the security systems.”

  “And I’m telling you again, all my people are good people,” Caldwell shot back. “I know you active-duty officers look down on rent-a-cops, but they’re well trained. I got a couple former NYPD guys here and two Army veterans. If any of them were into anything, I’d know about it.”

  “Yeah, you probably would,” Erin agreed. “But there’s one person who had access you can’t vouch for.”

  “Yeah? Who’s that?”

  Erin held his eye and didn’t say anything. She was looking for weakness, for him to look away.

  Caldwell blinked. “You don’t seriously mean—” he began.

  “Makes sense,” Vic said. He’d been watching the exchange, a welcome break from the security footage. “You could’ve tripped the breakers. You also could’ve turned off a fire alarm. Hell, you could’ve made the whole system do whatever you wanted. Nobody’s looking over your shoulder. What’s that old saying about watchmen, Erin?”

  “’Who watches the watchmen?’” Erin quoted.

  Caldwell looked angry now, angry and a little scared. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he said. “I’ve been helping you!”

  “Best way to avoid suspicion,” Erin said quietly. “I know you didn’t kill her, Barry. But I also know you probably know who did. Point us in the right direction. You’re not the one we want.”

  “I can’t,” Caldwell said. “Because I don’t know who you want.”

  “I think maybe you do,” Vic said. He stood up and stepped next to Erin.

  “You guys are nuts,” Caldwell said. “What, so a guy hangs up his shield, because of an injury he got in the line of duty for God’s sake, and you turn on him? Jesus! What’s the matter with you?”

  “This has nothing to do with you having been a cop,” Erin said. “One way or the other.”