by J. D. Robb
“If I said yes?”
“Then he stays out. He’d be useful, but I don’t need him.”
“Darling Eve. You needn’t worry about . . .” He remembered her phrase, and her tone when she’d used it. “About my dick getting in a twist. Do what suits you. This needs my attention,” he said as the computer signaled a pause. “Do you have more names?”
“A few.”
“Be my guest.” He gestured to the side unit, then took his seat behind the console.
Marriage, Eve thought as she took her seat, was a puzzle she didn’t think she’d ever solve. Too many damn pieces. And the shapes of them were constantly changing on her. He seemed perfectly fine with the idea of her working with Webster, a man he’d pounded on gleefully the night before.
But maybe he wasn’t, and this complacent agreement was just a ruse.
She’d just have to worry about it later.
She got down to work. At least that was something she understood. She ran the names Patsy Kohli had given her. Her husband’s cop friends. Detectives Gaven and Pierce and an Officer Goodman, along with Sergeant Clooney.
On her first pass, every one of them looked clean enough to glint. Gaven, Detective Arnold, had a nice pocketful of commendations and a solid number of closed cases. He was tidily married, had a five-year-old daughter, and was lead-off batter in the squad’s softball team.
Pierce, Detective Jon, ran along a parallel route, only he had a son, age three.
Goodman, Officer Thomas, was younger by two years, and considered a shoe-in for a detective’s shield. He was recently married and a lay minister at his church.
Religion, she thought. Thirty pieces of silver.
Clooney, a twenty-six-year vet, had been attached to the One two-eight for the last twelve years. He’d partnered with Roth at one time, Eve noted, intrigued. Then Roth had sprinted past him up the brass ladder. That could piss a certain type of individual off.
He had a wife, and though her residence listed was different than his, there was no record of a legal separation or divorce. His son, Thadeus, had been killed in the line of duty while attempting to prevent a robbery.
Walked in on in progress, Eve noted, frowning. According to witness reports, he’d drawn his weapon, stepped in to shield one of the civilians, and had been attacked from behind. He’d suffered numerous stab wounds and had been pronounced dead on the scene.
His assailants had cleaned out the 24/7 store and escaped. The case remained open.
Thadeus Clooney had left behind a wife and infant daughter.
Suffered a loss, she considered. A big one. Could that turn a twenty-six-year vet with a spotless record into a killer?
But why blame other cops for the loss?
Last, she ran Bayliss, Captain Boyd.
Oh, he was clean, she thought as she read his data. If you looked only at that slick surface. Churchgoer, community volunteer, chaired a couple of charitable organizations, had his two kids in posh private schools. Married for eighteen years to a woman who’d come to him with money and social status.
Never worked the streets, she mused. Even in uniform, which he’d shed quickly, he’d been assigned to a desk: administration, evidence management, office aide. A born drone.
But a smart one. He’d moved up, then over, into IAB.
And there, she thought, he’d found his calling.
Interesting, she noted, that this last business wasn’t his first official sanction. He’d been warned before about his methods. But whatever his means, he’d dug the dirt. The department had stepped nimbly aside, with a frown perhaps, but no serious block.
He’d skirted the rules: entrapment, illegal tapping, and surveillance. His favored ploy was to set cop against cop.
Cop against cop. How big a leap was it from destroying a career to taking a life?
Most interestingly, she discovered that shortly after the Ricker debacle, Bayliss had found himself under review, and had earned another sanction, for his attempt to discredit the sergeant in charge of the evidence area.
He’d gone so far as to harass the man’s wife and children, to haul the sergeant into an IAB interview room and keep him there, without benefit of counsel or representation, for over four hours.
The IRS had received an anonymous tip, and though it hadn’t been traced to Bayliss or his crew, it had resulted in a full audit of the sergeant’s financials. Nothing suspicious had been found, but the audit had cost the unlucky cop thousands of dollars in legal fees and lost time.
She would have to take a much closer look at Bayliss, and now at the beleaguered Sergeant Matt Myers.
She wanted to go deeper but lacked the tech skill. She glanced over at Roarke, but she knew from his intent and focused expression that he wouldn’t welcome the interruption.
Rather than humiliate herself with failure by attempting to access Bayliss’s personal files, she tried another route.
She contacted Webster.
“Bayliss,” she said without preamble. “Talk to me.”
“A fanatic disguised as a crusader. A disguise I bought, I’m sorry to say, for a considerable amount of time. Dedicated to his particular mission. Charismatic along with it, like some prophet preaching a new religion.”
She sat back, hummed. “Really?”
“Yeah, gets you hyped, which is what can pull you along before you realize you’ve just stepped knee-deep in a pile of shit. On the other hand, he’s exposed corruption and moved a lot of dirty cops out of the system.”
“By any means necessary.”
“Okay.” Webster sighed, rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s true, particularly over the last year. His methods have been making me uneasy. I’m pretty sure he has files, extensive ones, on every cop in the department. Not that he shares them with me. He crosses over the line, privacy and procedure wise. I used to think it was justified.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Sergeant Myers. He was officer of record on the Ricker evidence that mysteriously vanished or became corrupted. Jesus, Bayliss hounded him to death. He was convinced Myers was in Ricker’s pocket, though there was no evidence, overt or covert, to substantiate it. My take is he figured he’d get Myers off the job one way or the other, but the guy stood up. He just wouldn’t break, he wouldn’t shake. When the department cleared him, he transferred to a house in Queens. Bayliss never forgot it, and he’s been burning low over the slap on the wrist he took from The Tower.”
“Tibble rapped him.”
“That’s the word. Right after the rap, he started the operation with Kohli. Maybe he figured he’d vindicate himself and end up with a shine. I don’t know, Dallas, he’s a hard one to figure.”
“Do you know if this Myers is still alive and well in Queens?”
“I never heard otherwise.” Webster’s eyes widened. “Christ, Dallas, you don’t think Bayliss is out there killing cops?”
“It would get them off the job, wouldn’t it?” she countered. “One way or the other. You said you wanted in, Webster. Did you mean it?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I meant it.”
“Then here’s your first assignment. Check out Myers, make sure he hasn’t met with any recent accidents. And if he’s still breathing, see if you can find out if he’s been visiting our fair city.”
He hadn’t worked Homicide for years, but he picked up fast. Nodded. “He’d have plenty of reason to resent dirty cops. What angle are you working?”
“I’ve got plenty of them. Right now, I’m going to get a warrant for Bayliss’s personal files.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” he muttered.
“When I do,” she continued coolly, “I want your help sorting through them. I’ll be in touch.”
She cut transmission, then turned to see Roarke watching her. “Are you looking at Bayliss for this?”
“There’s dirty and there’s dirty. He’s got grime under his manicure. How much distance is there between deliberately ruining lives and taking them?
” She shrugged. “Webster can keep busy getting me some data on Myers, and we’ll see where that goes. I can’t say Bayliss is my first choice. I don’t think he’s got the stomach for blood—and we’ve still got Kohli being clean. But one way or the other, he’s a connection.”
“It’s a simple matter to access his personal files.”
“It would be, for you. I’ll get a warrant, do it straight. If I’m going to bring Bayliss into Interview, and I am, I want it straight, and I want it clean.”
“Then you may want to ask for another warrant while you’re at it. On Vernon.”
“It’s already on my list,” she began, then got slowly to her feet. “You followed the money.”
“I did indeed, through a circuitous, convoluted, and tedious route, back to Max Ricker Unlimited. That doesn’t give you Ricker personally passing funds from his hand to Vernon’s, but it does involve his corporation. He’s not as clever as he once was,” Roarke murmured. “Or as careful. It should have taken me twice this long to trace it back to him.”
“Maybe you’re more clever than you once were.” She walked over to study the screen, laying a hand on Roarke’s shoulder. Most of what she saw was a jumble of accounts, names, companies. But one name in particular jumped out, made her smile.
“Canarde, am I reading this right? He’s attorney of record for Northeast Manufacturing, a subsidary of Ricker’s main deal?”
“That’s right.”
“And am I reading this one? Canarde authorized the electronic transfer of funds, funneled through the main deal, into Northeast, over into this other corporation, up into the casino in Vegas II, where Vernon picked it up, ostensibly as gambling winnings.”
“I’m so proud.” He took the hand on her shoulder, pressed his lips to her palm.
“Thanks, but you’ve diagramed it here so a moron could connect the dots. I wanted a shot at that smug son of a bitch Canarde. Now I’ve got one. Except I can’t use it,” she said in disgust and paced away. “Unless I can get Vernon to roll.”
She’d get him to roll, she promised herself, then moving away from the control center so that her communicator screen would show nothing but the screened window, she contacted her commander.
She wanted some brass knuckles.
Roarke sat where he was, watching her, listening to her make her case: clear, he thought, concise, detailed, and dispassionate. He knew her like a book and could already see the steps she planned to take.
He wasn’t the least surprised when she pressed Whitney after he agreed to throw his weight into her request for a warrant in the morning.
“Sir, I want to move on Captain Bayliss tonight.”
“Lieutenant, Captain Bayliss remains a ranking officer in the NYPSD. Convincing a judge to grant an immediate warrant ordering him to submit to interrogation regarding two homicides is going to be tricky.”
“I realize that, Commander. Which is why I contacted you, in the hopes that you will, in turn, contact Chief Tibble.”
“You want me to call Tibble in on this?”
“Certain information has come into my hands that leads me to believe Chief Tibble will be receptive to this request. I cannot at this point in my investigation ascertain whether Captain Bayliss is a suspect or a target. However, I have no doubt he falls on one side of the line. If he’s a target, quick action may save his life. If he is a suspect, that same action may save another.”
“Dallas, your personal feelings—”
“Do not apply, sir, and have not influenced my current findings.”
“Be damn sure of it,” Whitney muttered. “I’ll contact the chief.”
“Thank you, Commander. At this time, I request a second warrant for Detective Jeremy Vernon of the One two-eight, requiring him to report for a formal interview at nine hundred tomorrow morning, regarding the same investigation.”
“Christ.” It was his first and only exclamation. “You’ve been busy.”
“Yes, sir,” she said so coolly he let out a short laugh.
“I’ll get the warrants, Lieutenant. Expect me, and in all probability Chief Tibble, in observation during these interviews. Let’s take some care here. We’re going to look like we’ve taken a page from IAB’s book.”
“Understood. I’ll await verification and receipt of the warrants.”
“Well done,” Roarke said quietly when she ended the transmission.
“Not close to done. I have to go get dressed. Thanks for the help.”
“One moment.” He rose and walked to her. He took her face in his hands and lowered his mouth, taking hers in a kiss of quiet, somehow desperate tenderness.
She felt it in her heart, that answering flutter; in her stomach, that slow, sliding drop. Her hands came up to settle at his waist. “Roarke—”
“Just be quiet a minute.” He changed the angle, taking the kiss deeper, a long, lazy trip into glory.
Her hands slid around him, her arms wrapped to bring him close. And she understood he was showing her, offering her, the other side of passion. The sweetness of it, and the promise.
When he drew back, she found herself smiling, even as her head spun. “I could probably spare one more minute.”
“Come home soon.” This time he pressed his lips to her forehead. “And we’ll take all the time we want.”
“Good thinking.” She started for the door, then with a half laugh turned back to look at him. “Whenever you do that, you know, like you just did, I always feel a little drunk after. I kind of like it.”
She watched his grin flash before she slipped out the door.
In just over an hour, she was standing, with Peabody, at another door. Bayliss lived in a stylish neighborhood in a stylish suburb of New York. His home was a graceful if unimaginative two-story dwelling in a tidy forest of others like it. Lawns were rigorously mowed, tastefully fenced, and security lighted.
The house itself was dark and silent, with a discreet plaque by the door warning that the premises was guarded by Alarm Dog Security Systems, Inc.
Still, when she rang the bell, the summons was almost immediately answered by a polite request for indentification.
“Police.” Eve held up her badge. “I have a warrant. You’re required to open the door.
It was opened, quickly, by an attractive house droid in a simple gray maid’s uniform. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, neither Captain nor Mrs. Bayliss are at home this evening.”
“And where would they be?”
“Mrs. Bayliss is in Paris on a spring shopping trip with her sister. She has been from home for three days. I am unable to tell you where Captain Bayliss is this evening. He is not at home.”
“This warrant allows me to enter the premises and ascertain that for myself.”
“Yes, Lieutenant. I am fully programmed on the law.” She stepped back. “But you will find the captain is not at home this evening.”
Eve stepped in. “Has he been home today?”
“Oh yes. He arrived home at shortly after four o’clock this afternoon. He left approximately fifty-eight minutes later. I do not expect him to return tonight.”
“And why is that?”
“The captain left with a suitcase.”
“Where’s his room? His bedroom?”
“On the second level, first door to the left. Would you like me to escort you?”
“No.” Eve bounded up the stairs, shoved into the room, swore.
He’d been in a hurry, she thought. The closet door was open, two drawers were open as well.
“Another clothes horse,” she muttered. “Hard to say how much he took. Peabody, find out where the wife’s staying in Paris. He’s got a weekend place, vacation home, whatever. I think it was the Hamptons. Get the address.”
“Do you think he’s gone under?”
“I think he’s gone,” Eve said sharply. “Get the addresses. He’s got to have an office in this place. I’m going to check it out.”
She found his office on the first level and had already
formed an opinion of Bayliss’s lifestyle by the time she reached it. The house was as cold and as organized as a computer. Everything in its place.
And, she’d noted, he and his wife didn’t share a bedroom. Or, she assumed, a bed, as the bedroom down the hall from Bayliss’s was an obvious feminine retreat, complete with dressing area, two-level walk-in closet, and a sitting area that had contained a desk holding fancy writing paper with his wife’s name at the top.
His office was ruthlessly organized as well, and she saw immediately he’d run through it quickly. The desk chair was pushed back, and a file box of discs stood with its cover not quite straight.
Nerves, she thought. Nerves that made him not quite so smart and not quite so careful this time. What are you afraid of, Bayliss?
She pulled out her palm-link and, using her badge and identification, ran checks on transportation to Paris. Though she found nothing under Bayliss’s name, she couldn’t be sure he hadn’t used an alias.
She walked to the door, gave a shout to Peabody, who came on the run. “I have the information for you.” She ran it off.
“Good. We’re going to stretch the warrant to its limit. I want you to contact Feeney. That unit,” she said, jerking her thumb back. “I want it gone over with microgoggles. He took data with him, but Feeney will find what’s on the machine. While he’s doing that, I want you going over this house inch by inch.”
“Yes, sir. Where are you going?” she asked as Eve strode out.
“I’m going to the beach.”
chapter seventeen
Eve checked the fit of her safety harness and resisted the urge, the increasingly desperate urge, to simply close her eyes. “I’m not really in that much of a hurry.”
Roarke cocked a brow in her direction while piloting the new Air/Land Sports Streamer through a sky turning soft with evening. “That’s not what you said when you asked me to get you there.”
“I didn’t know you had some new toy you were dying to try out. Jesus.” She made the mistake of glancing down and saw the coastline and its complement of houses, hotels, and beachfront communities whiz by. “We don’t have to be this high, either.”
