by J. D. Robb
She sipped, sat. “I had to hack away at paperwork all morning, and kept thinking if I just had a body, I could skate out of it. It’s that careful what you wish for bit. Sucks that it’s usually true.”
She told him about Tray and Julie, then of the prison administration dragging their feet on notification of McQueen’s escape. Bookending the worst of it, she supposed. Building up to going back.
“He wants your attention.”
“And he’s got it. He’ll keep it until he’s back in a cage. He should’ve been transferred to an off-planet facility six years ago when Omega was complete. But . . .”
She shrugged, continued to eat.
“They never charged him with the murders. His mother, the girls never recovered, the other women?”
“No. Not enough evidence, especially if you’re a PA more concerned with your conviction rate than actual justice.”
“You were disappointed,” Roarke commented.
“I was green.” She shrugged again, but with more of a jerk. “I figured we had enough solid circumstantial on the four missing girls, on the dead mother, partners. We had enough to try him on those charges, too. But that wasn’t my decision. That’s not my job.”
“You’re still disappointed.”
“Maybe, but I’m not green now, so I’m realistic. And McQueen wouldn’t break. Feeney worked him for hours, days. He let me observe. He even brought me into the box briefly, hoping seeing me would shake, or just piss off McQueen enough for him to say something, make some mistake. And I’m getting ahead of myself,” she realized. “I guess I’d better start at the beginning.”
“Twelve years,” he prompted her, wanting her to talk it out, for both of them. “You’d barely begun.”
“I’m trying to remember me, to see myself. To feel. I wanted to be a cop so bad. A good cop, solid. To work my way up to detective. I wanted Homicide, that was always the goal. Homicide detective. I didn’t really know anybody in the department, in the city for that matter. Most of the rookies who graduated with me were scattered around the boroughs. I got Manhattan, and that was big. I needed to be here.”
He topped off her wine, gave her a small opening. “I think of the photo you gave me for Christmas, of you at your desk at the Academy. Hardly more than a child, and your hair long.”
“I’d hacked it off by the time I graduated.”
“You had cop’s eyes even then.”
“I missed things. I had a lot to learn. I was working out of the Four-Six, Lower West. A little house. Central absorbed it, I guess, about eight years ago. It’s a club now. The Blue Line. Weird.”
She paused when a thought struck her. “You don’t own it, do you?”
“No.” But he filed it away, thinking she might enjoy owning her first cop shop.
She drew a breath. “Okay. So. I was only a few weeks on the job, on patrol or doing the grunt work they stick rooks with. It was hot, like this, late summer when you’re wondering if it’ll ever cool off again. There was a mugging that went way, way south. A couple in visiting their daughter. She’d just had a baby. They’re walking back to her place, did some shopping for the kid.
“Junkie, crashing, and he’s got a six-inch sticker. They don’t hand everything over fast enough, and he gives the woman a jab to hurry them up. One thing leads to another, and the man ends up dead with a dozen holes in him; the woman’s critical, but conscious. Manages to call out until somebody stops. It’s a decent enough neighborhood, and it’s freaking broad daylight. But there just wasn’t anybody around. Bad luck. Feeney caught the case.”
“That would be good luck,” Roarke prompted.
“Yeah. Jesus, Roarke, he was good. I know the e-work is his thing, and he’s the best. But he was a hell of a murder cop. He didn’t look that much different—less gray, not as many lines. But even back then he looked like he’d slept in his clothes for a couple nights running. Just watching him was an education. How he worked the scene, read it, read the wits.”
Looking back, seeing Feeney in her head, she settled a bit more. “I stood there, watching him, and I thought, ‘That’s what I want.’ Not just Homicide, but to be that good. He stood on the sidewalk with the blood and the body, and he saw it. He felt it. He didn’t show it, hard to explain.”
“You don’t need to.” Because he’d stood and watched her with blood and body, and knew she saw. Knew she felt.
“Well. The junkie went rabbit, and the wits gave conflicting descriptions. The surviving vic was mostly out of it, but we had a general to go on. They called in some uniforms to canvass because one of the wits said they thought maybe he lived right there on Murray, or knew somebody who did. I was partnered up with Boyd Fergus, a good beat cop. We ended up at two-fifty-eight Murray. We weren’t getting anywhere. Nobody’d seen anything, and most of the people who lived in that neighborhood were at work anyway. So when we got to that building, Fergus said we’d split up, and since I was younger and had better legs, I should start up on three. He’d take the first floor, and we’d meet up again on two. It was just . . .”
“Fate?”
“Or luck, or what the fuck. But I headed up to the third floor.”
And she saw it. Felt it.
The old building trapped the hot like a steel box, then mixed it with the smell of the veggie hash—don’t spare the garlic—someone was stirring up for dinner on the second floor. She could hear the various choices of evening entertainments vibrating against walls and doors. Trash rock, media reports, canned laughter from some sitcom, soaring opera banged and echoed dull through the stairway. Over it she heard creaks, voices, and somebody carping about the price of soy coffee.
She could relate.
She filed it all away, automatically taking note of the size and shape of the hallway, the exits, the window at the far end of the landing, the cracks in the ancient plaster.
It was important to pay attention, take in the details, know where you were. She appreciated Fergus for trusting her to do so, trusting her to handle the knock on doors on her own, even if it was just another routine.
Routines made up the whole, formed the structure for everything else. Boredom was a factor, sure, in the routine of knocking, identifying, questioning, moving on, and doing it all again and again. But whenever boredom tried to sneak in, she reminded herself she was a cop, she was doing the job.
For the first time in her life, she was someone.
Officer Eve Dallas, NYPSD.
She stood for something now. For someone. She climbed the stairs in the stuffy, noisy building for Trevor and Paula Garson.
Two hours before Trevor had been alive, Paula healthy. Now he was dead and she was struggling not to be.
And one of those knocks might, just might, result in information on the asshole who’d taken a life, broken all the lives connected to it.
So she knocked, identified herself, questioned, moved on.
At the second apartment, the woman who answered wore pajamas and exhausted eyes.
“Summer cold,” she told Eve. “I’ve been trying to sleep it off.”
“You’ve been home all day?”
“Yeah. What’s this about?”
“Two people were mugged in this vicinity approximately two hours ago. Did you see or hear anything unusual?”
“You know, maybe. Head cold’s got me, so I can’t taste anything, brain’s fuzzy, and my ears are plugged up. But I thought I heard somebody screaming. Figured I imagined it, or it was from one of the neighbor’s screens, but I looked out the window. I did see somebody running, but I didn’t think anything of it, just went back to bed. God, was somebody hurt? This is a good neighborhood.”
“Yes, ma’am, someone was hurt. Could you describe the individual you saw running?”
“Maybe. I didn’t really get a good look. That window.” She gestured. “I’d come out to get a drink—lots of fluids—and thought maybe I’d try the couch awhile. I heard something, and walked over to look.”
“Do you mind
if I come in?”
“No, sure. Better keep your distance. I’m probably contagious. Honestly, Officer, I was pretty out of it. All the meds, but I did see somebody running. That way.”
At the window, she pointed west. “It was a man. Long hair, um, brown, I think. He was running away, but he did look over his shoulder. I think. He had a scruffy little beard.”
“Height, weight, skin color?”
“Oh. White, I think. Not black. I guess he looked sort of skinny. Shorts! He was wearing shorts. Knobby knees. And he was carrying a couple of bags, shopping bags. I remember because I thought, ‘Wow, he’s in a hurry to get home with his loot.’ Jeez, it was someone else’s loot.”
“Was it someone you’ve seen before?”
“I don’t really think so. I’m usually at work during the day. I only moved in a couple months ago, and don’t really know anybody yet.”
Eve took the woman’s name, her contact information, thanked her for her cooperation. She stepped out, intending to tag Fergus, inform him of the lead and her status.
She saw someone at the door of 303.
He had two shopping bags—local market, she noted—and set them down to uncode his door.
She noted the door had serious security, unlike the standard she’d observed in the rest of the building.
She filed away his approximate height, weight, what he wore as she approached. “Excuse me, sir.”
He’d just opened the door, reached down for the bags. He straightened slowly, turned. She saw a beat of blank before his face transformed into polite curiosity.
“Officer. What can I do for you?”
“Are you the resident?”
“Yes, I am.” Now he beamed a smile. “Isaac McQueen.”
“Are you just getting home for the day, Mr. McQueen?”
“Actually, I ran out a short time ago to do some shopping.”
“Were you at home approximately two hours ago?”
“Yes, I was. Is there a problem?”
Something off, she thought, but didn’t know what or why. She kept her eyes level on his as she walked toward him.
“There was a mugging.”
Distress covered his face, but it seemed to her he slipped it on like a mask. “Is that what was going on? I saw the police around when I walked down to the market.”
“Yes, sir. Did you see or hear anything else?”
“Not that I can think of. I really should get these groceries put away.”
Something off, she thought again. Just . . . something. “I’d like to ask you some questions, just routine. May I come in?”
“Really, Officer . . .”
“Dallas.”
“Officer Dallas, I don’t see how I can help you.”
“I won’t take up much of your time now, and it’ll save you from another visit later so I can complete my report.”
“Fine. Anything to help the boys—and girls—in blue.” He stepped in, let her follow.
Big space, she thought, nicely furnished. Plenty of windows, all privacy screened. And the door to the left had a security lock and two hand bolts.
Yeah, something off.
“I need to get my fresh fruits and vegetables in the cooler,” he told her.
“No problem. This is a nice unit, Mr. McQueen.”
“I like it.” He carried his bags to the kitchen, began to unload.
“Do you live alone?”
“At the moment.”
“Employment?”
“Is that relevant?”
“Just details for my report, sir.”
“I do e-work, freelance.”
“So you work at home.”
“Primarily.”
“Nice and quiet,” she commented.
Quiet, she thought, unlike the rest of the building. Why would a freelance e-man soundproof his apartment? Why would he have a room locked and bolted from the outside?
“Were you working two hours ago when the incident took place?”
“Yes, I was, which is why I didn’t see or hear anything.”
“That’s too bad because the window behind you has a direct view of the crime scene.” She glanced left. “Is that your office?”
“That’s right.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
“Yes, I’m afraid I do.” He continued to smile, but annoyance slithered through. “My work is sensitive and confidential.”
“Requiring you to lock it up, from the outside.”
“Better safe than sorry. Now if that’s all—”
“You said you live alone.”
“That’s right.”
“That’s a lot of food for one person.”
“Do you think so? But then you’re very thin, aren’t you? Officer Dallas, unless you believe I mugged a couple of people on the street a stone’s throw from my own home, I’d like to get my food put away and get back to work.”
“I didn’t say a couple of people.”
He sighed, hugely. “You must have. Now, I’ll show you out.”
As he came around the counter, walked toward her, she shifted her balance, instinctively laid her hand on the butt of her weapon.
“Mr. McQueen, I’m wondering why you wouldn’t report a crime, or at the very least contact nine-one-one when a woman was screaming for help.”
“I told you I didn’t see anything. And if I had, some of us choose not to get involved. Now—”
“You don’t want to put your hand on me, sir.”
He held his up in a gesture of peace. “And I don’t want to contact your superior and report this harassment.”
“I’ll contact my partner downstairs. He’ll come up and you can report us both.” Fergus would kick her ass most likely, but damn it there was something here. So she pushed just a little harder. “And then you can explain what’s behind that door.”
“Officer Dallas.” His tone, his expression transmitted mild annoyance mixed with reluctant amusement. “Have it your way.”
His fist rammed fast and hard. She dodged, but the punch glanced off the side of her cheekbone, and her face exploded with pain. The single stumble back gave him the time and space to kick the weapon she drew out of her hand.
She pivoted, her right hand numb, her face throbbing, swung into a spinning kick, followed it with a back fist. She landed both, would have tapped her communicator for assistance, but caught the glint of a knife.
Fear coated her throat as she barely evaded the first vicious jab.
“Scream if you want.” He smiled, but she saw—somehow recognized—the monster behind it. “No one can hear. And your’link, any com devices?” He jabbed again, almost playfully. “They won’t work in here. I’ve got jammers activated. You should have listened to me, Officer Dallas. I gave you every opportunity to leave.”
He blocked her kick, sliced out with the knife and scored her shoulder.
He outweighed her, had a longer reach and a weapon. Combat training, she judged, as she used her own to dodge, to weave, to land a blow or two.
Fergus would contact her, and unable to tag her come looking.
But she couldn’t depend on backup. All she had was herself.
“You wanted to see what was in my workroom. I’m going to show you when we’re done. I’ll show you where the bad girls go.”
She threw a lamp at him. Pitiful, she thought, but it gave her a little room.
This time when he sliced, she went in low, plowed her fists into his balls, her head into his belly. She felt the knife catch another piece of her, but came up hard with an uppercut, jammed her knee into his already tender crotch.
She tried a body takedown, and he flung her across the room.
“That hurt!” Outrage reddened his face, stripped away all amusement. “You skinny bitch, you’re going to pay for that.”
Her ears rang. Her vision blurred. She thought, no, she’d be damned if she’d die this way. She was going to make goddamn detective.
She shifted her weight and balance,
came up with both feet. When he staggered back she scrambled up and behind a chair. Time to catch her breath. She was hurt, knew she was hurt. Couldn’t think about it. He’d kill the hell out of her unless she evened the odds.
“I’m a cop.” She tasted blood along with the fear. “Dallas, Officer Eve. And you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent.”
He laughed. Laughed and laughed with blood running from his split lip. He came forward, passing the knife from hand to hand. “You’re a feisty one, and entertaining. I’m going to keep you alive for a long, long time.”
For an instant she saw two of him and thought, fleetingly, she might have a concussion. Closer, she thought, let him get closer. Let him think she was finished.
Then she shoved the chair hard into his knees, and dived.
She rolled, came up with her weapon. As he leaped toward her, she fired. He jerked back, kept coming. She fired again. “Go down, you fucker!” And again.
She heard herself screaming when the knife dropped out of his hand, when he slid, shaking, to the floor.
“Son of a bitch, son of a bitch, son of a bitch.” She got to her knees, weapon still trained. She couldn’t get her breath. Had to get her breath.
Training, routine. Kick the knife away, get out your restraints. Secure the prisoner.
She straightened, swayed as pain and nausea churned through her.
Jesus, Jesus, I’m hurt.
She couldn’t say why she did it. Even years later she didn’t know why she’d felt so compelled. She searched his pockets, found the key.
She staggered to the locked room even as her mind reeled off procedure. Go out, contact Fergus, call for backup. Officer needs assistance.
Sweet Jesus, officer needs assistance.
Instead, she dragged the bolts clear, managed after three tries to uncode the lock.
And she opened the door to hell.
“There were so many of them. Children, just girls, shackled, naked, covered in bruises, dried blood, God knows what. Most of them were huddled together. Eyes, so many eyes on me. The smell, the sounds, I can’t tell you.”
She didn’t know if she’d taken his hand or he’d taken hers, but the contact kept her grounded in the now, and a desperate step back from the horror.
