J D Robb - Dallas 12I

by [Ss] Interlude In Death(lit)

  "Go on." Peabody whispered it as she nudged Eve with her elbow. "Go on, Dallas."

  "We'd be delighted to meet with Commander Skinner." Roarke solved the problem by setting his own drink aside, then taking both Eve's and Peabody's arms. It earned him an adoring-puppy look from Peabody and a narrow scowl from his wife.

  Before Hayes could object or adjust, Roarke led both women across the ballroom.

  "You're just doing this to piss me off," Eve commented.

  "Not entirely, but I did enjoy pissing Hayes off. Just a bit of politics, Lieutenant." He gave her arm a friendly squeeze. "It never hurts to play them."

  He slipped through the crowd smoothly, and only smiled when Hayes, a muscle working in his jaw, caught up in time to break a path through the last knot of people.

  Skinner was short. His reputation was so large, it surprised Eve to note that he barely reached her shoulders. She knew him to be seventy, but he'd kept himself in shape. His face was lined, but it didn't sag. Nor did his body. He'd allowed his hair to gray, but not to thin, and he wore it militarily trim. His eyes, under straight silver brows, were a hard marble blue.

  He held a short glass, the amber liquid inside neat. The heavy gold of his fifty-year ring gleamed on his finger.

  She took his measure in a matter of seconds as, she noted, he took hers.

  "Lieutenant Dallas."

  "Commander Skinner." She accepted the hand he held out, found it cool, dry and more frail than she'd expected. "My aide, Officer Peabody."

  His gaze stayed on Eve's face an extra beat, then shifted to Peabody. His lips curved. "Officer, always a pleasure to meet one of our men or women in uniform."

  "Thank you, sir. It's an honor to meet you, Commander. You're one of the reasons I joined the force."

  "I'm sure the NYPSD is lucky to have you. Lieutenant, I'd -- "

  "My husband," Eve interrupted. "Roarke."

  Skinner's expression didn't waver, but it chilled. "Yes, I recognized Roarke. I spent some of my last decade on the job studying you."

  "I'm flattered. I believe this is your wife." Roarke turned his attention to the woman beside Skinner. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

  "Thank you." Her voice was the soft cream of the southern United States. "Your Olympus is a spectacular accomplishment. I'm looking forward to seeing more of it while we're here."

  "I'd be happy to arrange a tour, transportation."

  "You're too kind." She brushed a hand lightly over her husband's arm.

  She was a striking woman. She had to be close to her husband in age, Eve thought, as their long marriage was part of Skinner's pristine rep. But either superior DNA or an excellent face-and-body team had kept her beauty youthful. Her hair was richly black, and the gorgeous tone of her skin indicated mixed race. She wore a sleek silver gown and starry diamonds as if she'd been born to such things.

  When she looked at Eve it was with polite interest. "My husband admires your work, Lieutenant Dallas, and he's very exacting in his admiration. Roarke, why don't we give these two cops a little time to talk shop?"

  "Thank you, Belle. Excuse us, won't you, Officer?" Skinner gestured toward a table guarded by a trio of black-suited men. "Lieutenant? Indulge me." When they sat, the men moved one step back.

  "Bodyguards at a cop convention?"

  "Habit. I wager you have your weapon and shield in your evening bag."

  She acknowledged this with a little nod. She would have preferred to wear them, but the dress didn't allow for her choice of accessories. "What's this about, Commander?"

  "Belle was right. I admire your work. I was intrigued to find us on the same program. You don't generally accept speaking engagements."

  "No. I like the streets."

  "So did I. It's like a virus in the blood." He leaned back, nursed his drink. The faint tremor in his hand surprised her. "But working the streets doesn't mean being on them, necessarily. Someone has to command -- from a desk, an office, a war room. A good cop, a smart cop, moves up the ranks. As you have, Lieutenant."

  "A good cop, a smart cop, closes cases and locks up the bad guys."

  He gave one short laugh. "You think that's enough for captain's bars, for a command star? No, the word 'naive' never came up in any of the reports I've read on you."

  "Why should you read reports on me?"

  "I may be retired from active duty, but I'm still a consultant. I still have my finger in the pie." He leaned forward again. "You've managed to work and close some very high-profile cases in the murder book, Lieutenant. While I don't always approve of your methods, the results are unarguable. It's rare for me to judge a female officer worthy of command."

  "Excuse me. Back up. Female?"

  He lifted his hand in a gesture that told her he'd had this discussion before and was vaguely weary of it. "I believe men and women have different primary functions. Man is the warrior, the provider, the defender. Woman is the procreator, the nurturer. There are numerous scientific theories that agree, and certainly social and religious weight to add."

  "Is that so?" Eve said softly.

  "Frankly, I've never approved of women on the force, or in certain areas of the civilian workplace. They're often a distraction and rarely fully committed to the job. Marriage and family soon -- as they should for women -- take priority."

  "Commander Skinner, under the circumstances, the most courteous thing I can think of to say is you're full of shit."

  He laughed, loud and long. "You live up to your reputation, Lieutenant. Your data also indicate that you're smart and that your badge isn't something you just pick up off the dresser every morning. It's what you are. Or were, in any case. We have that in common. For fifty years I made a difference, and my house was clean. I did what had to be done, then I did what came next. I was full commander at the age of forty-four. Would you like to be able to say the same?"

  She knew when she was being played, and kept her face and tone neutral. "I haven't thought about it."

  "If that's true, you disappoint me. If that's true, start thinking. Do you know, Lieutenant, how much closer you would be right now to a captaincy if you hadn't made some ill-advised personal decisions?"

  "Really?" Something began to burn inside her gut. "And how would you know the promotion potential of a homicide cop in New York?"

  "I've made it my business to know." His free hand balled into a fist, tapped lightly, rhythmically on the tabletop. "I have one regret, one piece of unfinished business from my active duty. One target I could never keep in my sights long enough to bring down. Between us, we could. I'll get you those captain bars, Lieutenant. You get me Roarke."

  She looked down at her wine, slowly ran a fingertip around the rim. "Commander, you gave half a century of your life to the job. You shed blood for it. That's the single reason I'm not going to punch you in the face for that insult."

  "Think carefully," he said as Eve got to her feet. "Sentiment over duty is never a smart choice. I intend to bring him down. I won't hesitate to break you to do it."

  Riding on fury, she leaned down very close, and whispered in his ear. "Try it. You'll find out I'm no fucking nurturer."

  She stepped away, only to have one of the bodyguards move into her path. "The commander," he said, "isn't finished speaking with you."

  "I'm finished speaking with the commander."

  His gaze shifted from her face briefly, and he gave the faintest nod before he edged closer, clamped a hand on her arm. "You'll want to sit down, Lieutenant, and wait until you've been dismissed."

  "Move your hand. Move it now, or I'm going to hurt you."

  He only tightened his grip. "Take your seat and wait for leave to go. Or you're going to be hurt."

  She glanced back at Skinner, then into the guard's face. "Guess again." She used a short-arm jab to break his nose, then a quick snap kick to knock back the guard beside him as he surged forward.

  By the time she'd spun around, planted, she had her hand in her bag and on her weapon. "Keep your dogs on
a leash," she said to Skinner.

  She scanned the faces of cops who'd turned, who'd moved forward, to see if there was trouble coming from another direction. Deciding against it, she turned away and walked through the buzzing crowd.

  She was nearly at the door when Roarke fell in step beside her, draped an arm around her shoulders. "You got blood on your dress, darling."

  "Yeah?" Still steaming, she glanced down at the small splatter. "It's not mine."

  "I noticed."

  "I need to talk to you."

  "Um-hmm. Why don't we go upstairs, see what the valet can do about that bloodstain? You can talk before we come down to have a drink with your friends from Central."

  "Why the hell didn't you tell me you knew Skinner?"

  Roarke keyed in the code for the private elevator to the owner's suite. "I don't know him."

  "He sure as hell knows you."

  "So I gathered." He waited until they were inside the car before he pressed a kiss to her temple. "Eve, over the course of things, I've had a great many cops looking in my direction."

  "He's still looking."

  "He's welcome to. I'm a legitimate businessman. Practically a pillar. Redeemed by the love of a good woman."

  "Don't make me hit you, too." She strode out of the elevator, across the sumptuous living area of the suite, and directly outside onto the terrace so she could finish steaming in fresh air. "The son of a bitch. The son of a bitch wants me to help him bring you down."

  "Rather rude," Roarke said mildly. "To broach the subject on such a short acquaintance, and at a cocktail reception. Why did he think you'd agree?"

  "He dangled a captaincy in my face. Tells me he can get it for me, otherwise I'm in the back of the line because of my poor personal choices."

  "Meaning me." Amusement fled. "Is that true? Are your chances for promotion bogged down because of us?"

  "How the hell do I know?" Still flying on the insult, she rounded on him. "Do you think I care about that? You think making rank drives me?"

  "No." He walked to her, ran his hands up and down her arms. "I know what drives you. The dead drive you." He leaned forward, rested his lips on her brow. "He miscalculated."

  "It was a stupid and senseless thing for him to do. He barely bothered to circle around much before he hit me with it. Bad strategy," she continued. "Poor approach. He wants your ass, Roarke, and bad enough to risk censure for attempted bribery if I report the conversation -- and anyone believes it. Why is that?"

  "I don't know." And what you didn't know, he thought, was always dangerous. "I'll look into it. In any case, you certainly livened up the reception."

  "Normally I'd've been more subtle, just kneed that jerk in the balls for getting in my way. But Skinner had gone into this tango about how women shouldn't be on the job because they're nurturers. Tagging the balls just seemed too girly at the time."

  He laughed, drew her closer. "I love you, Eve."

  "Yeah, yeah." But she was smiling again when she wrapped her arms around him.

  As a rule, being crowded ass to ass at a table in a club where the entertainment included music that threatened the eardrums wasn't Eve's idea of a good time.

  But when she was working off a good mad, it paid to have friends around.

  The table was jammed with New York's finest. Her butt was squeezed between Roarke's and Feeney's, the Electronic Detective Division captain. Feeney's usually hangdog face was slack with amazement as he stared up at the stage.

  On the other side of Roarke, Dr. Mira, elegant despite the surroundings, sipped a Brandy Alexander and watched the entertainment -- a three-piece combo whose costumes were red-white-and-blue body paint doing wild, trash-rock riffs on American folk songs. Rounding out the table were Morris, the medical examiner, and Peabody.

  "Wife shouldn't've gone to bed." Feeney shook his head. "You have to see it to believe it."

  "Hell of a show," Morris agreed. His long, dark braid was threaded through with silver rope, and the lapels of his calf-length jacket sparkled with the same sheen.

  For a dead doctor, Eve thought, he was a very snappy dresser.

  "But Dallas here" -- Morris winked at her -- "was quite some warm-up act."

  "Har har," Eve replied.

  Morris smiled serenely. "Hotshot lieutenant decks legend of police lore's bodyguards at law enforcement convention on luxury off-planet resort. You've got to play that all the way out."

  "Nice left jab," Feeney commented. "Good follow-through on the kick. Skinner's an asshole."

  "Why do you say that, Feeney?" Peabody demanded. "He's an icon."

  "Who said icons can't be assholes?" he tossed back. "Likes to make out like he put down the Urban Wars single-handed. Goes around talking about them like it was all about duty and romance and patriotism. What it was, was about survival. And it was ugly."

  "It's typical for some who've been through combat to romanticize it," Mira put in.

  "Nothing romantic about slitting throats or seeing Fifth Avenue littered with body parts."

  "Well, that's cheerful." Morris pushed Feeney's fresh glass in front of him. "Have another beer, Captain."

  "Cops don't crow about doing the job." Feeney glugged down his beer. "They just do it. I'da been closer, Dallas, I'da helped you take down those spine crackers of his."

  Because the wine and his mood made her sentimental, she jabbed him affectionately with her elbow. "You bet your ass. We can go find them and beat them brainless. You know, round out the evening's entertainment."

  Roarke laid a hand on her back as one of his security people came to the table and leaned down to whisper in his ear. Humor vanished from his face as he nodded.

  "Someone beat you to it," he announced. "We have what's left of a body on the stairway between the eighteenth and nineteenth floors."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Eve stood at the top of the stairwell. The once pristine white walls were splattered with blood and gray matter. A nasty trail of both smeared the stairs. The body was sprawled on them, faceup.

  There was enough of his face and hair left for her to identify him as the man whose nose she'd broken a few hours before.

  "Looks like somebody was a lot more pissed off than I was. Your man got any Seal-It?" she asked Roarke.

  When Roarke passed her the small can of sealant, she coated her hands, her shoes. "I could use a recorder. Peabody, help hotel security keep the stairwells blocked off. Morris." She tossed him the can. "With me."

  Roarke gave her his security guard's lapel recorder. Stepped forward. Eve simply put a hand on his chest. "No civilians -- whether they own the hotel or not. Just wait. Why don't you clear Feeney to confiscate the security disks for this sector of the hotel? It'll save time."

  She didn't wait for an answer, but headed down the steps to the body. Crouched. "Didn't do this with fists." She examined his face. One side was nearly caved in, the other largely untouched. "Left arm's crushed. Guy was lefthanded. I made that at the reception. They probably went for the left side first. Disabled him."

  "Agreed. Dallas?" Morris jerked his head in the direction of the seventeenth floor. A thick metal bat coated with gore rested on a tread farther down the stairs. "That would've done the trick. I can consult with the local ME on the autopsy, but prelim eyeballing tells me that's the weapon. Do you want me to dig up some evidence bags, a couple of field kits?"

  She started to speak, then hissed out a breath. The smell of death was in her nostrils, and it was too familiar. "Not our territory. We've got to go through station police. Goddamn it."

  "There are ways to get around that, with your man owning the place."

  "Maybe." She poked a sealed finger in a blood pool, nudged something metal and silver. And she recognized the star worn on the epaulets of hotel security.

  "Who would be stupid enough to beat a man to death in a hotel full of cops?" Morris wondered.

  She shook her head, got to her feet. "Let's get the ball rolling on this." When she reached the top of the
steps, she scanned the hallway. If she'd been in New York, she would now give the body a thorough examination, establish time of death, gather data and trace evidence from the scene. She'd call her crime scene unit, the sweepers, and send out a team to do door-to-doors.

  But she wasn't in New York.

  "Has your security notified station police?" she asked Roarke.

  "They're on their way."

  "Good. Fine. We'll keep the area secure and offer any and all assistance." Deliberately, she switched off her recorder. "I don't have any authority here. Technically, I shouldn't have entered the crime scene area. I had a previous altercation with the victim, and that makes it stickier."