by J. D. Robb
“If things go as I’m damn well going to make sure they go, we’ll have our first face-to-face today. This is the sort of thing she’d pay attention to. She’s going to know, on every level I can manage, she’s dealing with power.”
“You want to challenge her.”
“I will challenge her. But that’s for later.” She glanced at the time. “I have to take the next step, contact Whitney. Christ, I hope his wife doesn’t answer the ’link.”
Eve picked hers up from the dresser, squared her shoulders. “Here we go.”
Commander Whitney’s wide face came on-screen after the second beep. She had a moment to be relieved he hadn’t blocked video, which meant it unlikely she’d woken him. Still, she was pretty certain it was a sleep crease across his left cheek and not a new line dug by time and the stress of authority, so she hadn’t missed by much.
“Lieutenant.” He spoke briskly, dark eyes sober in his dark face.
She matched his tone. “Commander, I apologize for the early hour. We have a situation.”
She laid it out with a military precision Roarke admired. Across the room, he dressed for the day, listened to Whitney pepper Eve with questions. Roarke thought you’d have to know the man and listen very well to hear the shock, but it was there.
“I want to review Peabody’s statement, to speak with her myself, and to review your records.”
“Yes, sir. Commander, if I could suggest we hold this initial review here rather than Central? Detectives Peabody and McNab are at this location at this time, and we would be assured of privacy until you make your determinations.”
He considered a moment, then, “On my way,” and clicked off.
“On your turf,” Roarke commented.
“That’s a factor, but he knows it’s smarter to start this outside rather than with a major meeting in his office. I’m going to go prep for this.”
“I imagine he’ll have some questions for me, so I’ll see if I can be available. I have a holo-conference in ten minutes. I should have it wrapped by seven or so. You did well,” he added.
“It’s just the beginning.”
Five
EVE PREPARED A PACKET FOR HER COMMANDER with copies of all data, recordings, statements, and notes. While she worked she practiced, in her head, her pitch for the steps she hoped to take next, her reasons for each, her justifications for bringing in Feeney and Mira and connecting with Webster for the IAB aspect.
Tone, strategy, logic, confidence. She’d need them all, and in a seamless blend, to keep her hands on the controls of what would be a two-point investigation—one that put Marcus Oberman’s daughter in the crosshairs where they met.
She glanced up as McNab came in. He wore his own clothes—probably for the best. Seeing him in normal attire might shock their commander senseless.
“Peabody’s taking a few more minutes,” he told Eve. “I think she just wanted a little time alone.”
“What’s her status?”
“She’s pretty solid. I thought maybe she’d have nightmares, but I guess she was too wiped.”
Wiped was how she’d describe him now. The bright clothes, the shine of the earrings crowding his earlobe didn’t disguise the strain and worry clouding his face.
“Ah, you look ... I guess the word’s formidable. In a styling way,” he added.
Score for Roarke, she thought.
“Anything I can do?” he asked her.
“There will be, but for now we’re on hold. I checked the monitor. Everything’s five-by-five there. Get some coffee,” she said when he just stood in front of the board she’d set up, jingling whatever he had in his multitude of pockets. Then she remembered who she was talking to. “And some food.”
“Maybe I’ll put something together for Peabody.” He started toward the kitchen, then stopped in front of her desk. His green eyes burned cold. “I want blood. I know I’ve got to get over, got to get straight, but fuck it, Dallas, that’s what I want. It’s not because—or just because—she was in a situation. The job puts you in situations, that’s what it is. But it’s not supposed to come from other cops.”
“A badge doesn’t make you a cop. Get over, get straight, McNab.” She’d already told herself the same. “That’s how we’ll make this right.”
While he fiddled in her kitchen, Eve rose to check the board again, to be certain she’d forgotten nothing. She heard Peabody come in behind her. “McNab’s fixing food. Go get some.”
“Stomach’s a little jumpy. The idea of going through it with Whitney.”
Eve turned. Not altogether solid, she noted. “Do you trust your commander, Detective?”
“Yes, sir. Without reservation.”
She used the same brisk tone she had with McNab as she gestured toward the kitchen. “Then get some food, shed the nerves, do the job.”
Turning away, she checked the monitor again—unnecessarily, she knew, and logged the time as Peabody moved by her.
Moments later she heard McNab’s voice. She couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was sly, teasing. And Peabody laughed. Eve felt the tension in her own shoulders ease.
To satisfy her own needs she ordered Renee Oberman’s ID photo and data on her comp screen for another long study.
Age forty-two, blond and blue, five feet four inches, one hundred and twenty pounds. Attractive, as Roarke had said. Flawless ivory skin with a hint of roses, classic oval face with sharply defined eyebrows several shades darker than her hair.
Dark eyebrows, Eve noted, and a dark forest of lashes—which probably meant Renee had a clever hand with facial enhancements. She’d left the face unframed, pulling her hair back for her official photo, but Eve had studied others with the long, straight-as-rain fall of it sleeked to the shoulders.
Vanity, Eve thought. Maybe another area to exploit.
The only child of Marcus and Violet Oberman, who’d been married forty-nine years. Father, police commander (retired) with fifty years on the job. Mother, a waitress, had taken six years as a professional mother after the daughter was born, then found employment as a sales manager in a women’s upscale boutique until retirement.
Renee Oberman, one marriage that had lasted two years, one divorce. No offspring. Cross-reference had shown her that Noel Wright had remarried, and the second, six-year union had produced two offspring, a boy age five and a girl age three. The ex owned and operated a bar in the West Village.
She filed it all away. You never knew what might be useful, she thought.
“Lieutenant,” Summerset announced through the house ’link. “Commander Whitney has just been cleared through the gates.”
She’d already decided against going down to meet him, to escort him upstairs made it more like home, less like a work space. “Send him right up. McNab! Program a pot of coffee. The commander’s on site.”
But she stood, deliberately flanking Peabody with McNab when Whitney strode in.
He wore command, she thought, on his wide shoulders, on his tough face, in the cold beam of his eyes.
He stopped at her board. She’d positioned it so he would see it immediately, so Renee Oberman’s face, Garnet’s, Keener’s, the crime scene ranged together, connected.
And she saw a quick flare of heat flash through the cold.
Without asking, Eve poured him coffee, crossed over to offer it. “I appreciate your quick attention to this matter, Commander.”
“Save it.” He moved past her, zeroed in on Peabody. “Detective, I will review your statement on record, but at this time, I want to hear it from you.”
“Yes, sir.” Instinctively Peabody shifted to attention. “Commander, at approximately twenty hundred hours I entered the workout facilities in sector two.”
Whitney went at her hard, hard enough to put Eve’s back up, hard enough she had to shoot McNab a warning glare when she saw the temper light up his face.
Whitney questioned her ruthlessly, interrupting, demanding, forcing her to backtrack, repeat, overlap.
> Though she paled, and Eve clearly heard the nerves skittering under the words, she never faltered, never changed a single detail.
“You were not able to make a visual identification of either individual?”
“I was not, sir. While I clearly heard the male subject refer to the female as Renee, and as Oberman, and heard her call him Garnet, I was unable to see either clearly. The female subject referred to as Renee Oberman was clear in her conversation that the male subject was her subordinate. I was able at one point to see a portion of her profile, hair color, skin color. I was able to determine her approximate height. With this information we have identified the individuals as Oberman, Lieutenant Renee, and Garnet, Detective William, of the Illegals Department out of Central.”
“You are aware that Lieutenant Oberman is a decorated and ranked officer with a service of nearly eighteen years in the department.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You are further aware that she is the daughter of former Commander Marcus Oberman.”
“I am, sir.”
“And you are willing to swear to these statements in an internal investigation of these officers, possibly in a criminal trial?”
“Yes, sir. I am willing and eager to do so.”
“Eager, Detective?”
“Eager to do my duty as a member of the NYPSD, as an officer who has sworn to protect and serve. I believe—correction, sir—I know these individuals have used their position and authority, have used their badges unethically, immorally, and illegally, and I am eager, Commander, to do whatever I can to stop them from continuing to do so.”
He said nothing more for a moment, then—very quietly—sighed. “Sit down, Detective. Leave her be,” he ordered McNab when the e-man started to go to her. “She doesn’t need you hovering and clucking like a mother hen. She’s a cop, and she’s sure as hell proved it.
“Lieutenant.”
Now Eve stood at attention. “Sir.”
“You waited nearly eight hours to report this matter to command.”
She’d expected this, had her response ready. “Six, sir, as it took time to acquire Detective Peabody’s full and detailed statement, and to determine that the individuals she overheard were, in fact, NYPSD officers. At which time it was my judgment that this matter was best served by attempting to corroborate that statement and those details by locating Keener, and gathering all information possible to present to you.”
She paused a moment, not a hesitation, but a beat to punch a point. “My detective had informed me of a possible homicide. I felt it imperative that I verify.”
“That could work,” Whitney murmured.
Would, she corrected in her head. She’d damn well make it work.
“All actions are on record, sir, for your review. I further determined after the body of Rickie Keener was located, both the scene and the body monitored, to wait approximately oh three hours before so informing you rather than contacting you with this information at three hundred hours. This is a delicate and disturbing process, Commander. I didn’t feel it could be, or should be, rushed.”
He nodded, then he, too, sat. “At ease, Dallas, for Christ’s sake.” He kneaded his brow, then dropped his hands. “Marcus Oberman is one of the finest cops I’ve ever served with. This process, as you call it, will smear his record, his reputation, and his name. And very likely break his heart.”
And here, she thought, may be the stickiest of the sticking points. “I regret that, sir. We will all regret that. However, the daughter isn’t the father.” Her entire life, in many ways, had grown on that single fact.
“I’m aware of that, Lieutenant. I’m aware of that as Renee Oberman has served under me for several years. She is not the cop her father was, but few are. Her record has, so far, been excellent, and her work perfectly acceptable. Her strengths include a forceful personality, an ability to select the right person for the right job, and she’s adept in accessing the details of a situation and streamlining them into a logical pattern. She is, I feel, better suited for administrative and supervisory duties than the street, and—in fact—prefers those duties. She runs her squad with a firm hand and gets results.”
“A lieutenant running a squad should do work that’s more than perfectly acceptable. In my opinion, sir.”
He nearly smiled. “You would home in. In a department the size and scope of the NYPSD, it’s often necessary to—accept the acceptable. There have been no signs, no forewarnings, no leading indicators of this corruption. Lieutenant Oberman is ambitious and has structured her career, has situated herself on a path to a captaincy. I have no doubt she has her eye on my seat, and very likely has a time line for when she’d drop her ass into it.”
“She’s going to be disappointed.”
He did smile now, huffing out a half laugh. “Even prior to this, I’d have done whatever I could to keep her out of the commander’s chair. She doesn’t have the temperament for it. For the politics, for the grips and grins, for the paperwork and public relations, yes. She’d do well. But she lacks compassion, and she sees her men as tools, and the job as a means to an end.”
He doesn’t like her, Eve realized, and wondered if that made his part of the situation easier or more difficult.
“All that said,” he continued, “we have an explosive situation, with the fuse already lit.” He glanced over as Roarke stepped into the room.
“Jack,” Roarke said with a nod.
“At this time only the five people in this room are aware of this situation. Correct?”
“Yes, sir,” Eve agreed. “At this time.”
“Show me the body. More detail.”
“Monitor on-screen,” Eve ordered, and the image flashed.
Whitney sat back, studied. “You chose not to establish TOD or secure any evidence.”
“ID only, Commander. My thoughts were—”
“I know what your thoughts were,” he interrupted. “Run the record, start to finish, on this location.”
Eve followed orders, her face impassive as it played on-screen. Her recorder caught part of the scuffle between Roarke and the street thug.
“Prime move!” McNab’s enthusiasm got the better of him. “Sorry, sir.”
“No need. It was a prime move.” Whitney nodded at Roarke. “Did you break that elbow?”
“Dislocated, I think.”
“Sometimes I miss the streets.” The record moved inside, into the filth. “Sometimes I don’t.”
He lapsed into silence, watching the rest. When it was done, the silence remained for several moments. “I’ll review the rest, but assuming it’s as you’ve already related to me, what’s your next move? You have a next move, Dallas,” he added. “You’ve had enough time to calculate several next moves.”
“My first priority would be to officially discover the body and take the investigation. Through a tip from one of my CIs, or we’ll run it so the record she sees plays that out. I believe that’s less complicated and could be more useful than standard channels. She won’t know who contacted me, and I’ll have no obligation to inform her. In fact, it would be standard for me to protect my own weasel. She believes Keener’s death will be seen and treated as an accidental OD. It won’t be. I’ll hard-line it, give her something to worry about. Or just be pissed off about. I’ll be in her face, and by doing so will have the opportunity to observe her, her squad.”
“How many of them are in this?” Whitney nodded. “It’s not just Garnet.”
“No, sir, that would be unlikely. Concurrent to that would be the Internal Affairs investigation. With your permission, sir, I would inform and fully brief Lieutenant Webster. I’ve worked with him before, and he knows Peabody. That connection would save time and should streamline the process.”
“And you believe you can convince him you and your team need to play an active role, not just in the homicide but in the internal investigation?”
“There wouldn’t be an internal investigation without Peabody, and it’s very likel
y Keener’s death would have been put down as an OD.”
“You don’t have to convince me. I’ll also speak to Lieutenant Webster.”
“I also need to inform and brief Doctor Mira. Her insights, opinions, and evaluations would be essential.”
“Yes, agreed.”
“And I need Feeney. I need EDD.”
“IAB has its own e-men.”
“We need ours. McNab is already in this, and his captain should be apprised. Every meet I have with Renee Oberman should, when possible, be on record. IAB will shadow her, sir, but if she’s got any instincts it won’t take long for her to smell rats. She hasn’t gotten this far without good instincts, without taking precautions.”
“Feeney and Mira. Your part of this investigation will have to be run, for the most part, from this location. We don’t know how far her tentacles reach through the department. Through my house.” Whitney looked at Roarke again. “Yours just became primary HQ.”
“Apparently.”
“You’re a tolerant man.”
“Not altogether. I have had, you could say, some experience with cops such as Lieutenant Oberman. If using my house helps remove her from yours, my door’s open.”
Whitney nodded, got to his feet. His gaze swept over everyone in the room. “Let’s take the bitch down.”
When the briefing concluded, Eve turned to Roarke. “I need that weasel tip, and it needs to look legit in case Renee manages to get her hands on the log.”
“I can do that, but I need just one moment of your time first.” He stepped back into his office.
“I’m really on the clock here,” she began.
“Understood, and you’ll have your tip come in—transferred to your ’link from your office unit—asap. I wanted to tell you I’ve just spoken with Darcia—Chief Angelo, Olympus.”
“Okay.”
“She’s on planet, on holiday. We had a meeting scheduled for next week before her return, but she’s come to New York early. She’d like to see Cop Central, and you.”
“I’m a little pressed right now.”
“And I could hardly tell her you’re busy launching an investigation on a ring of dirty cops, could I?”
