by J. D. Robb
“That’s right. I want to cooperate. I want to make things right. I feel—”
“That’s enough, Vernon. You are a ranked detective in the NYPSD, correct?”
“I’ve been a cop for sixteen years. Been a detective in Illegals at the One twenty-eight for the last six.”
“And at this time you are prepared to admit that you have accepted financial bribes and other favors in exchange for passing information to, aiding in the illegal practices of, and generally following the orders of Max Ricker.”
“I took money. Fact was, I was afraid not to. I’m ashamed of it, but I feared for my life and well-being. I’m not the only one.”
Once he got started, Eve thought, you couldn’t shut him up. In the first hour, he reeled off streams of names, activities, connections.
He brought down the One twenty-eight, even as he doggedly treaded water to keep his own neck above the swamp.
“Captain Roth?”
“Her?” Vernon, feeling perkier, sneered. “She didn’t see. Didn’t want to, you ask me. Has her own agenda. Wants to make commander. Plays a good game of politics, but she’s got this problem. She don’t have a dick and wishes she did. Always going off about how some of the men didn’t like taking orders from her ’cause she’s a woman. Then she’s got that useless husband screwing around on her. She drinks. She got so hot on this op to take Ricker down, she didn’t watch her back or look down at her feet neither. Made it easy to pull the rug out, you know. We just passed the data along, lost some key evidence, skewed a couple of reports, and that was that.”
“Yeah, that was that.”
“Listen.” Vernon leaned forward. “Ricker’s smart. He knows he doesn’t need the whole squad. He gets key men, and they keep a look out for him, and for other recruits. You know who’s up for a take and who’s not.”
“Kohli wasn’t.”
“Straight as a damn arrow, Kohli. One of the guys in the One two-eight, see, he’d heard something on an op from say, the Six-four. Easy to poke around, talking shop. Then you got a guy knows how to hack data, and you get the deets. Pass that to Ricker, and you get a nice fee.”
He lifted his hands, actually smiling. “Smooth. Simple. If the op was after one of Ricker’s connections, he had time to change locations, pull out, whatever, so the op’s a bust. If it’s one of his competitors, he can sit back, wait for the shit to fly, then pick up the clients, maybe even the merchandise, after. He’s got key men in Evidence when he needs them. Then the media guys to spin stories his way, the politicians to keep the heat off. Thing is, I’ve been noticing, last couple years the guy’s getting erratic.”
“Ricker?”
“Yeah. He’s starting to dip into his own stock a little too heavy. Slurping that drink of his, laced with illegals, every time you turn around. He’s a damn addict now, half gone to a funky-junky. I mean he’s slipping and sliding in a big way, making some bad moves. Then offing a cop. I mean, Jesus.”
Eve’s hand shot out, gripped his wrist. “Do you have knowledge that Max Ricker arranged for the murder of Taj Kohli?”
He wanted to say yes. Somehow, it had all taken on the shining sheen of bragging. But if he didn’t play it straight, she’d catch him up and find a way to hang him. “I can’t say as he ordered it, but I heard some talk.”
“Give me the talk, Vernon.”
“Now and again I’d maybe have a drink or share an LC with one of Ricker’s guys. Lemme tell you, I wasn’t the only one noticing he was losing his touch here and there. So this guy, Jake Evans, he was telling me about a month ago that Ricker was playing games with IAB, getting his jollies turning cops on cops. He knew IAB put a man into that club, looking for cops doing deals. Only there weren’t cops doing deals. Get me?”
“Yeah, I get you.”
“Right. Ricker’d put that out, playing his games. Ricker, Evans tells me, has this bug up his ass to cause trouble there, in that club, and that’s why he’s having some of his men channeling illegals through it. But seems he got a better idea, and he thinks he’s found a way to put a cop on a cop, all the way. Some psychological shit, Evans said. Ricker, he’s big on mind games. He’s feeding skewed data to this other cop on the first cop. The second cop . . . You following this?”
“Yes. Keep going.”
“Okay, the second cop’s got some problems. Personal problems or something, and Ricker’s chewing away on them, making them raw, giving this cop lots of little nudges so he’ll think the first cop, that’s Kohli, did something dirty. But it was more than that, like whatever the dirty was went back on the first cop. Evans said it was complicated and risky, and Ricker wasn’t saying much, but he, Evans, didn’t like it. Then Ricker’s man in IAB . . . he’s got one there, too. His man there was supposed to make sure all this shaded data sort of fell in the second cop’s lap. I guess it worked.”
Vernon had the good sense to take the excitement off his face. “I figured when Kohli got hit, and it came around he got hit by another cop, I figured Ricker’d worked it.”
“What’s the name in IAB?”
“I don’t know. Swear to God,” he said when her eyes narrowed. “We don’t all know each other. Mostly we found out, but not every one, every time. Probably Bayliss, right? Bayliss is dead. Come on, Dallas. I’ve given you close to twenty names. You put a fire under some of them, you’ll get more.”
“Yeah, I’ll get more.” She got to her feet. “But I can’t stomach any more from you. McNab, get this thing into a safe house. Two guards at all times, on eight-hour shifts. Feeney, can you hand-pick them.”
“Can do.”
“I gave you a hell of a lot, Dallas. You could go to bat for me on the new ID.”
She didn’t so much as look at him. “Peabody, with me.”
“Dallas, hey!”
“Count your blessings, jerk,” Feeney muttered as Eve walked out. “You only got your balls bruised. Another little while in here with you, if she didn’t cut them off, I would have.”
“I can’t even get mad.” Peabody stood in the hallway, turned away from Interview. “I’m too sick to my stomach to get mad. I love being a cop, and he’s made me ashamed of it.”
“That’s the wrong take. He’s beyond shame. You just do the job, day after day, and you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. I need you to make a copy of that record and get it to Tibble. That’s going to be his problem, thank Christ. I’ve got another meet at noon. I’ll fill you in on it when I get back.”
“Yes, sir. What about Canarde?”
“We hold there. I’m saving him for later.”
“Do you want the results of the search and scan and probability you had me run?”
“Is it enough to pick him up?”
“Probability’s under seventy-six percent with known data. But—”
“But,” Eve repeated, “the computer doesn’t count grief or mind games. Or Ricker playing cop against cop. We’ll bring him in. We’ll do it quiet, when I get back.”
“He may try another hit.”
“No, he gave his word. He won’t break it.”
chapter twenty
Eve marched into the house, emitted a low, rumbling growl at a hovering Summerset, and headed straight up the stairs. She had a great deal to say and intended to get started immediately.
The growl came again, a quiet threat, when she noted her office was empty. But the door leading to Roarke’s was open. Rolling her shoulders, she started toward it, and heard the impatience in his voice as she approached the door.
“It’s neither possible nor is it convenient for me to make the trip at this time.”
“But, sir, the situation requires your personal attention. With Tonaka dragging their feet over this acquisition, and the delays in the environmental clearance on the tropical sector, we can’t hope to meet deadline without your immediate intervention. Cost overruns and penalties will—”
“You’re authorized to deal with it. I pay you to deal with it. I’m unable to make the trip to Olympu
s for the next several days, perhaps longer. If Tonaka is dragging feet, cut them off at the knees. Understood?”
“Yes, sir. If I could have any sort of estimate as to when you might clear the time to survey on site, it would—”
“I’ll let you know when I know.”
Roarke cut transmission, sat back, closed his eyes.
And two things occurred to Eve: First, that he had a complicated, vital, and demanding life apart from hers, one she too often took for granted.
Second, and more important, he looked tired.
He never looked tired.
The temper she’d hoarded like gold slipped away, unneeded. Unwanted. Still, instinct moved her into the room and kept a scowl on her face.
He sensed her instantly, his eyes opening. “Lieutenant.”
“Roarke,” she said in exactly the same cool and measured tone. “I have a number of things to say to you.”
“I’m sure you do. Would you prefer your office?”
“We can start right here. First, in my own fumbling way, I’ve managed to narrow my investigation—my homicide investigation—to one suspect. This suspect will be brought in, detained, and questioned before end of day.”
“Congratulations.”
“Premature. Questioning is not an arrest. At the same time, through another source and through police procedure, I’ve tied Ricker—loosely, but tied him—to those homicides and hope to charge him with conspiracy. It’s a stretch, but it could work and will certainly be enough for me to pull him in and interrogate him. I did those things without you going behind my back and over my head to formulate an operation with my superiors. An operation that puts you at considerable risk, not only physically but in ways we both understand. If the operation goes through, what’s said between you and Ricker will be admissible in court.”
“I’m perfectly aware of that.”
“Your immunity deal will keep you out of a cage, but could—and you know it—potentially damage your reputation and your business.”
Even through the fatigue in his eyes, she caught the glint of arrogance. “Lieutenant, my reputation and my business was forged in the same unsavory fire.”
“That may be, but things are different now. For you.”
“Do you honestly think I can’t weather this?”
“No, Roarke, I think you can and will weather anything, everything. I think there’s nothing beyond your capabilities when your mind is set. It’s almost scary. You pissed me off,” she added.
“I’m perfectly aware of that.”
“You knew you would. If you’d come to me with the idea first—”
“Time was short, and we were both busy. This involves me, Eve, whether you like it or not.”
“I don’t like it, but maybe not for the reasons you think.”
“Regardless, I did what makes sense, what’s most direct. I’m not sorry for it.”
“No apologies? I could make you apologize, pal.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah, that’s so. Because you’re soft on me. Ask anybody.” She moved to the desk now, watching him as he rose. “I’m soft on you, too. Don’t you know that’s why, or part of why I was pissed off? I don’t want him close to you. I don’t want what he is to touch you. Is that supposed to be your exclusive property? Not wanting someone who means you harm to lay hands on you?”
“No.” He sighed, ran a hand through his hair in a rare show of frustration. “No, it’s not.”
“The other part was pride, and I don’t have an easy time swallowing it. Neither do you. The thing you said, about me going along with you poking in when it works for me? You were right. I’m not saying that’s going to change, but you were right. I’m not real happy about that, either. And this other thing I know. You only walk away like you did when you’d like to punch me.”
“I must do a great deal of walking away.”
She didn’t laugh, as he meant her to. “No, that’s the thing. You don’t.” She came around the counter, the console, then took his face in her hands. “You just don’t.”
“Eve.” He ran his hands up her arms, to her shoulders.
“I’m not finished yet. It’s a good plan. Not a great one, but we can fine-tune it. I’d rather another way. I’d rather you’d use that ’link to contact whoever it was you were just talking to and agree to go off planet and do whatever the hell it is you do nobody else seems to be able to pull off. I’d rather that, Roarke, because you mean more to me than anything ever has or ever could. But it’s not going to happen. And if anything happens to you Friday night—”
“It won’t.”
“If anything happens to you,” she repeated, “I’m going to dedicate my life to making yours a living hell.”
“Fair enough,” he murmured as her mouth came up to his.
“An hour.” She wrapped herself around him. “Let’s go away from this for one hour. I need to be with you. I need to be who I am when I’m with you.”
“I know the perfect place.”
She had a fondness for the beach—the heat, the water, the sand. She could relax there in a manner she allowed herself so rarely.
He could give her the beach for an hour, take it for himself in the holo-room, where illusions were only a program away.
The island he chose, with its long sickle curve of white-sugar sand, its lazily waving palms, and fat, fragrant flowers, was a setting that suited both of them. The baking heat from the gold ball of sun was offset by the breeze that flowed in from the sea like the tide and brought the scent of it to the air.
“This is good.” She breathed deeply, felt the tension in her neck and shoulders melt away. She wanted the same for him. “This is really good.” She started to ask if he’d set the timer, then decided not to spoil the moment or the mood.
Instead, she stripped off her jacket, yanked off her boots.
The water was a clear and dreaming blue, frothed with white at the shore, like lace on a hem. Why resist?
Her weapon harness came next, then her trousers. She angled her head, looked at him. “Don’t you want to swim?”
“Eventually. I like watching you strip. It’s so . . . efficient.”
She laughed. “Yeah, well enjoy yourself.” She tugged off her shirt, then the little scoop-necked tank beneath. Naked as a newborn, she raced to the sea and dived under the waves.
“I intend to,” he murmured, and watched her strike out, always just a little too far for safety, before he undressed.
She swam like an eel, fast and fearless. For a time he paced himself to her, a companionable competition. Then he simply heeled over on his back to float in the current, to let the water, the sun, the moment, wash away the fatigue that had nagged at him.
And to wait for her.
She swam up beside him, treaded water. “Feel better?”
“Considerably.”
“You looked tired before.” And she wanted to stroke that fatigue away. “You hardly ever do.”
“I was tired before.”
She let her fingers tangle in his hair. “You get your second wind, I’ll race you back to shore.”
He had his eyes closed and kept them that way. “Who says I don’t have a second wind?”
“Well, you’re just floating there like flotsam. Or maybe it’s jetsam. I never know which is which.”
“I’ve heard, in some circles, this is called relaxing. But . . .” His arm sneaked under the water, then around her. “Since you have all this energy to spare.”
“Hey.” She laughed a little as their legs tangled. “We’re way over our heads here.”
“Just the way I like it.” His mouth came to hers, wet and teasing. His arm drew her close against him.
And they went under.
Warm, clear water, with the sun dancing on the surface. His mouth soft on hers, his body firm. For both of them, she let herself go, sliding deeper into the liquid blue. Sliding deeper into the kiss. When they surfaced, she filled her lungs and pressed her cheek
against his.
They let the water rock them, a steady, undulating rhythm that reflected the mood. Here, with light strokes over wet skin, was the tenderness they’d both needed. The brush of his lips on her shoulder made her smile and let her float on sensation as easily as she floated in the sea.
She turned her face to his, found his mouth again, and drugged herself on the taste of him.
They drifted lazily toward shore, rising up on the waves, sinking again, clinging together, drawing apart only far enough to touch.
When she felt sand beneath her feet, she stood in the waist-high water and watched his face as he traced his fingertips over her.
“I love the look of you, darling Eve. The way you look under my hands.”
Her breasts, small and firm, cupped neatly in his palms, seemed to heat as he captured them. Water sparkled over her skin, tiny diamonds that turned to tears and melted back into the blue.
“Give yourself to me.” His fingers trailed down her torso, over her hips. “Go under for me.” And slid into her.
She let out her breath on a sigh, caught it again on a moan. Pleasure, languid, liquid, lapped at her senses. The sun dazzled her eyes until all she could see was blue. He dazzled her body until all she could feel was bliss.
Even as that pleasure swamped her, as her knees buckled from the thrill of it, the wave crashed over them, stealing her breath and sweeping them closer to shore.
He rolled in it with her, felt her release crest, her body tremble while the water sucked them down, tossed them free again. She was locked around him—trust, need, invitation—everything he wanted as they lay tangled together in the surf.
He took her mouth again, still patient, though the need had begun to throb through him like a restless heart. He skimmed his lips down her throat, her shoulders, her breasts, while her hands stroked, aroused, urged.
The water streamed over them, receded, and to its constant, endless beat, he filled her, moved with her. Dreamily, with that pulse matching his own, he watched her head arch back as the crest took her again.
