by J. D. Robb
“Okay. The skull fracture the killing blow?”
“Didn’t I say I was still working on him?” Morse’s voice sliced out, laser sharp. Before Eve could respond, he held up a hand, protectively sealed and bloody to the wrist. “Sorry. Sorry. I can piece this much together. The assailant came at him from behind. First blow to the back of the head. Facial lacerations indicate the victim hit glass, face first. The second blow, jaw strike, took him down. Then the bastard opened his head like a goddamn peanut. He’d have been dead before he felt it. The other injuries are postmortem. I don’t have a final count of those injuries.”
“You gave me what I needed. Sorry for the push.”
“No, it’s on me.” Morse puffed out his cheeks. “I knew him, so it’s a little too personal. He was a decent guy, liked to show off holo-shots of his kids. We don’t get many happy faces around here.” His eyes narrowed on hers. “I’m glad he’s yours, Dallas. It helps knowing he’s yours. You’ll have my report by end of shift.”
He broke transmission and left her staring at a blank screen.
“Popular guy,” Eve commented. “Who had it so in for a decent guy, proud daddy, loving husband? Who’s going to beat a cop to a bloody pulp, knowing the system bands together to collar a cop killer? Somebody hated our popular guy in a big, nasty way.”
“Somebody he’d busted?”
You couldn’t worry about the ones you busted, Eve mused. But you always kept them in mind. “A cop has a drink with and turns his back on someone he’s busted, he’s asking to have his head bashed in. Let’s pump up the speed on getting all his records, Peabody. I want to see what kind of cop Taj Kohli was.”
Eve stepped into the squad room, had just turned toward her office, when a woman stood up from a bench in the waiting area.
“Lieutenant Dallas?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Rue MacLean. I’ve just heard about Taj. I . . .” She lifted her hands. “Roarke indicated you’d want to speak to me, so I thought I’d come in right away. I want to help.”
“I appreciate that. Just one moment. Peabody.” She stepped aside with her aide. “Give the record drones a boost on Kohli, then run his financials.”
“Sir? His financials?”
“That’s right. You run into any blocks on that, call Feeney in EDD. Do some digging. Find out who he was tight with in his squad. He didn’t talk to his wife about work, maybe he talked to someone else. I want to know if he had any hobbies, side interests. And I want to know what case files he was working on or was looking into. I want his life in front of me by end of shift.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ms. MacLean? I’d like to take you into an interview room. My office is a little cramped.”
“Whatever you like. I can’t believe this happened. I just can’t understand how it could happen.”
“We’ll talk about it.” On the record, Eve thought, as she led Rue through the warren of Central to the interview area. “I’d like to record this,” she said and gestured Rue into the boxlike room with a single table and two chairs.
“Of course. I only want to help.”
“Have a seat.” Eve activated the recorder. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, in interview with MacLean, Rue. Subject has volunteered to cooperate, on record, in the matter of Kohli, Taj. Homicide. I appreciate you coming in, Ms. MacLean.”
“I don’t know what I can tell you that might help.”
“You manage the club where Taj Kohli worked as part-time bartender?”
She was just the type Roarke would choose, Eve thought. Slick, sleek, lovely. Deep purple eyes, full of concern now, that shone like jewels against creamy skin.
Delicate features, close to elegant, with just a hint of steel in the line of the chin. Curvy, petite, and perfectly groomed in a plum-colored skirt suit that skimmed her body and showed off great legs.
Her hair was the color of sunlight and was drawn severely back in a fashion that required perfect confidence and good bones.
“Purgatory. Yes, I’ve managed the club for four years now.”
“And before that?”
“I was hostess at a small club downtown. Prior to that, I was a dancer. A performer,” she added with a thin smile. “I decided I wanted to move off the stage and into management where I could keep my clothes on. Roarke gave me the opportunity to do so, first at Trends as hostess, then as manager of Purgatory. Your husband appreciates ambition, Lieutenant.”
That was an avenue best not traveled on record. “Are part of your duties as manager of Purgatory the hiring of employees?”
“Yes. I hired Taj. He was looking for part-time work. His wife had just had a baby and was opting for professional mother status. He needed some extra money, was willing to work the late shift, and being happily married, wasn’t likely to hit on the talent.”
“Are those the only requirements for employment at Purgatory?”
“No, but they matter.” Rue lifted her fingers. She wore a single ring, a trio of stones twisted together like snakes and studded with stones the same color as her eyes. “He knew how to mix drinks, how to serve. He had a good eye for troublemakers. I didn’t know he was a cop. His application stated he worked in security, and it checked out.”
“What company?”
“Lenux. I contacted the office, spoke with his supervisor—well, or so I assumed—and was given his employment record. I had no reason to question it, and his record was solid. I hired him on a two-week probationary, he did the job, and we went from there.”
“Do you have the contact at Lenux in your files?”
“Yes.” Rue blew out a breath. “I’ve already tried to call. All I got this time around was that the code had been discontinued.”
“I’d like it anyway. Just to follow up.”
“Of course.” Rue reached into her bag, took out a day book. “I don’t know why he didn’t tell me he was a cop,” she said as she keyed in the code number on an e-memo for Eve. “Maybe he thought I wouldn’t hire him. But when you figure the owner’s a cop—”
“I don’t own the club.”
“No, well.” She shrugged and handed Eve the memo.
“He was in the club after closing. Is that standard?”
“No, but it isn’t unheard of. Routinely, the head bartender on duty and one of the security team close up together. Taj was serving as head last night, and according to my records, it was Nester Vine’s turn to close with him. I haven’t been able to reach Nester as yet.”
“Are you in the club every night?”
“Five nights a week. Sundays and Mondays off. I was there last night until two-thirty. The place was clearing out, and one of the girls was having a bad night. Boyfriend trouble. I took her home, held her hand for awhile, then went home myself.”
“What time was that?”
“When I went home?” Rue blinked a moment. “About three-thirty, quarter to four, I guess.”
“The name of the woman you were with until that time?”
“Mitzi.” Rue drew in a breath. “Mitzi Treacher. Lieutenant, the last time I saw Taj, he was alive and working the bar.”
“I’m just putting the facts on record, Ms. MacLean. Do you have a take on Detective Kohli’s state of mind the last time you saw him?”
“He seemed fine. We didn’t talk much last night. I stopped by the bar for some mineral water a couple of times. How’s it going, busy night, that kind of thing. God.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “He was a nice man. Quiet, steady. Always called his wife on his early break to see how she was doing.”
“He use the bar phone?”
“No. We discourage personal calls, barring emergencies, on the business line. He used his palm-link.”
“Did he use it last night?”
“I don’t know. He always did. I can’t say I noticed. No, wait.” This time she closed her eyes and seemed to drift. “He was eating a sandwich, back in the break room. I remember walking by. The door was open. He was making cooing noises.
Talking to the baby,” she said, opening her eyes again. “I remember that because it was so sweet and silly, hearing this big bruiser of a guy make baby noises into the ’link. Is it important?”
“Just trying to get a picture.” There hadn’t been a palm-link on or near the body, Eve recalled. “Did you notice anyone who came in last night or any other night when he was on? Somebody he knew, hung out at the bar with him?”
“No. We’ve got some regulars, of course. People who come in several times a week. Taj got so he’d know their usual drinks. Clients appreciate that.”
“Did he get tight with anyone who worked there?”
“Not particularly. Like I said, he was a quiet guy. Friendly enough, but he didn’t hang with anyone in particular. He did the bartender thing. Watched, listened.”
“Do you keep a metal bat behind the bar?”
“It’s legal,” Rue said quickly, then paled. “Is that what—”
“Did Taj ever have occasion to use it or threaten to?”
“He never used it.” She rubbed her upper chest with the flat of her hand in long, soothing strokes. “He had it out once or twice, I guess. Tapped it on the bar as a deterrent. That’s mostly all you need, especially with a guy his size. The club’s upscale. We rarely have any real trouble there. I run a clean place, Lieutenant. Roarke won’t tolerate less.”
The preliminary report was straightforward, and for Eve, unsatisfactory. She had the facts. A dead cop, bludgeoned to death with serious overkill and the wild destruction that pointed to an addict popping on Zeus or some lethal combination of illegals. A sloppy attempt to cover with the look of attempted robbery, a missing palm-link, and thirty loose credit chips.
The victim was apparently moonlighting to supplement his family income, had no blemishes or commendations on his service record, was well liked by his associates, and loved by his family. He had not, at least as far as she had uncovered, lived above his means, engaged in extramarital affairs, or been involved with a hot case that could have led to his death.
On the surface, it looked like just bad luck. But she was damned if that suit fit.
She brought his ID photo up on her screen, studied it. Big guy, with a proud look in his eyes. Firm jaw, wide shoulders.
“Somebody wanted you out, Kohli. Who’d you piss off?”
She shifted, sat up again. “Computer, run probability. Current case file, scheming cause of death and ME prelim, running primary’s report on victim. What is the probability that victim Kohli knew his assailant?”
Working . . . Probability, given known data and primary’s report is ninety-three point four percent that victim Kohli knew his assailant.
“Yeah, well, good for me.” She leaned forward, scooped her fingers through her hair. “Who do cops know? Other cops, weasels, bad guys, family. Neighbors. Who do bartenders know?” She let out a short laugh. “Every fucking body. Which hat were you wearing for your meet this morning, Detective?”
“Lieutenant?” Peabody poked her head in the door. “I’ve got Kohli’s current case load. There’s no record of him asking for files other than apply to his open logs. I ran into a trip with the financials. Everything’s jointly owned, so we need a warrant or spousal permission to poke around.”
“I’ll take care of it. Full service record?”
“Right here. Nothing special caught my eye. He was in on a big bust about six months ago. Some dealer named Ricker.”
“Max Ricker?”
“Yeah. Kohli was down in the feeding chain, mostly leg or drone work. He didn’t get the collar, that went to a Lieutenant Mills and Detective Martinez. They tied the warehouse of illegals to Ricker, got him indicted, but he slipped through. Still, they nailed six others in the cartel.”
“Ricker’s not the type to ruin his manicure by getting blood on the polish. But he wouldn’t think twice about paying for a hit, even on a cop.”
And the idea of it gave her a little ping of excitement. “Find out if Kohli testified. Seems to me it got to court before the whole business was dismissed on techs. See just what his part was in the bust. Get it from Captain Roth, and if she hassles you over it, pass her to me. I’ll be with the commander.”
Commander Whitney stood at his window while Eve reported on the status of her investigation. He had his big hands folded together behind his back and stared out at the sky traffic.
One of the new Cloud Dusters winged by close enough for him to see the color of its young pilot’s eyes and in direct violation of traffic codes.
Ballsy, Whitney thought absently, and stupid, he added as he heard the high, whining beep of the air patrol.
Busted, he thought. It should always be so easy to uphold the law.
When Eve fell silent behind him, Whitney turned. His face was dark and wide, his hair a close-cut military crop that was showing hints of gray. A big man with cool and sober eyes, he’d spent the first half of his career on the streets. Though he was spending the second half riding a desk, he hadn’t forgotten what it meant to strap on a weapon.
“Before I comment on your report, Lieutenant, I want to inform you that I’ve had communications from Captain Roth of the One twenty-eighth. She’s put in a formal request to have the Kohli homicide transferred to her squad.”
“Yes, sir. She indicated she would do so.”
“And your opinion of that request?”
“It’s understandable. And it’s emotional.”
“Agreed.” He waited a moment, inclined his head. “You don’t ask if I intend to grant Captain Roth’s request.”
“There’s no tactical reason to do so, and if you’d decided to put the investigation in Captain Roth’s hands, you’d have told me up front.”
Whitney pursed his lips, then turned back to the window. “Correct on both counts. The investigation remains on you. The case is emotional, Lieutenant. For Captain Roth’s squad and for every cop on the NYPSD. It’s difficult when one of us goes down, even though each of us knows the risks. But the nature of this killing takes it to another level. The excessive violence doesn’t smack of a professional hit.”
“No. But I’m not discounting that angle. If Ricker’s involved, whoever he hired may have been using or may have had instructions to make it messy. I don’t know what kind of cop Kohli was yet, Commander. Whether he was foolish enough or cocky enough to put himself in a vulnerable position with one of Ricker’s hammers. I have Peabody digging into his record and case load. I need to know who he was close to, the names of his weasels, and how involved he was in the Ricker investigation and trial.”
“It’s not the first time Ricker’s suspected of arranging a cop killing. But he’s generally more subtle.”
“There was something personal in this, Commander. Whether for the badge or for Kohli, I don’t know. But it was very personal. Roarke owned the club,” she added.
“Yes, so I’ve heard.” He turned back, skimmed his gaze over her face, and walked to his desk. “Personal all around, Lieutenant?”
“It will be easier and quicker to obtain data on the club and on its staff and clientele. The manager’s already come in voluntarily for interview. The fact that Kohli concealed his attachment to the NYPSD makes me wonder if he was on the job—on his own. He deliberately misrepresented himself and went so far as to arrange a cover. There’s no indication he was working in soft clothes for the department, so it would have been unofficial.”
“I have no knowledge of any investigation, official or otherwise, that required Detective Kohli to go under in Purgatory. But I will pursue that matter with Captain Roth.” He held up a hand before Eve could object. “It’ll be smoother if that particular inquiry comes from this office rather than from you, Dallas. Let’s keep it smooth.”
“Yes, sir.” But it grated. “I want a warrant to open Kohli’s financials. They’re jointly held with his widow. At this time, I prefer not to request permission from Mrs. Kohli.”
“Or alert her before they’re open,” he finished. He spread his h
ands on the desk. “You think he was taking?”
“I’d like to eliminate that angle, sir.”
“Do it,” he ordered. “And do it quietly. I’ll get your warrant. You get me a cop killer.”
Eve spent the rest of the day poring over Kohli’s record, familiarizing herself with his case load, trying to get a handle on the man. The cop.
What she saw was an average officer who’d performed steadily, if slightly under his potential. He’d rarely missed a shift and just as rarely put in any overtime.
He’d never used his weapon for maximum force and therefore had never undergone extensive Testing. Still, he’d closed or been in on the closing of a good number of cases, and his reports on those closed and those open were efficient, carefully written, and thorough.
This was a man, Eve thought, who followed the book, did the job, then went home at night and put his day away.
How? she wondered. How the hell did anyone manage that?
His military record was similar. No trouble, no glow. He enlisted at the age of twenty-two, served six steady years, the last two in the military police.
Every t was crossed, every i dotted. It was, to her mind, a perfectly ordinary life. Almost too perfect.
The call to Nester Vine from Purgatory got her as far as his harassed-looking wife, who informed Eve that Vine had come home before the end of his shift the night before, dog-sick. She herself had just gotten in from the hospital where she’d taken her husband at three that morning for what turned out to be appendicitis.
As alibis went, it was a beaut. The only tip she pried out of Mrs. Vine was that she should get in touch with some stripper named Nancie, who’d apparently stuck around after Kohli had urged Vine to go home.
Still, she contacted the hospital and verified one Nester Vine had indeed had his appendix removed, in emergency, early that morning.
Scratch Nester, she thought, and put the stripper on her talk-to list.
Calls to Lieutenant Mills and Detective Martinez went unreturned. In the field and unavailable was the response. She left one last message for each, gathered the files, and prepared to go home.
