Treachery in Death Read online

  A female detective with a short crop of curls and toffee-colored skin swiveled in her chair. “Looking for somebody?”

  “Your boss. Lieutenant Dallas, Homicide. I need to speak with Lieutenant Oberman.”

  “She’s got somebody in with her. Shouldn’t be long.” The detective wagged a thumb at the wide window and door—both with the blinds down and closed.

  “I can wait. Any problem letting her know I’m here?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “It’s sir in my unit.”

  “Sir. Hold on.” Rather than go to the office, the woman tapped the keys of her interoffice com—added, Eve noted, the privacy mode. “Lieutenant, pardon the interruption. There’s a Lieutenant Dallas from Homicide here to see you. Yes, ma’am. One minute,” she said to Dallas. “Coffee in the break room if you want it.”

  “I’m good, but thanks, Detective—”

  “Strong.”

  “Quiet in here,” Eve commented. “And clean.”

  “Lieutenant Oberman commands an orderly space.” The detective added a small, humorless smile, then went back to work on her comp.

  A moment later the office door opened. Eve recognized Garnet as he came out. “You can go right in,” he told her. “Bix, we’re rolling.”

  As she crossed the room, Eve noticed a big blond rise from his desk, check the knot of his tie before following Garnet out.

  Then she entered the sanctum.

  It was the word that came to mind. The desk was wood, deeply grained, highly polished. It held a top-flight data and communication center, an engraved nameplate, and a small white vase of pink and white flowers. A mirror in a slim frame and a painting—some moody seascape—rode the walls in a space that tripled Eve’s office.

  And dominating it on the wall across from the desk stood a full-length portrait of Commander Marcus Oberman standing militarily straight in dress blues.

  Eve wondered how it felt to have him watch her every move—and why she’d chosen to.

  Renee rose—a crisp white shirt under a fitted jacket with tiny black-and-white checks, the shining blond hair sleeked back into an intricately braided knot at the nape. Jet earrings dangled, and one of the pink and white flowers graced her lapel. When she skirted the desk to greet her, Eve noted Renee wore high black heels.

  “Lieutenant Dallas, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” Renee extended a hand, her bright blue eyes smiling. “I’m sure you know your reputation proceeds you.”

  “Likewise, Lieutenant.”

  “Please, have a seat.” She gestured to one of the two plush black visitor’s chairs. “Can I get you some coffee, or something cold?”

  “No, thanks. I wish I was here under better circumstances, Lieutenant, but I have to inform you one of your CIs is dead.”

  “One of mine?”

  “From what I found in his file, I have to assume Rickie Keener, aka Juicy, was yours.”

  Eve let that hang while Renee walked back around her desk, sat. Calculating, Eve thought, but she had to figure it’s smarter to admit it, acknowledge it.

  “Yes, for a few years now. How did he die?”

  “We’re working on that. Were you aware he used a hole off Canal?”

  Angling her head, Renee frowned. “No. That’s his territory but not his flop. Is that where he was killed?”

  “Looks that way, and it looks like he’d holed up there. Any reason you know of why he’d go to ground?”

  “He was a junkie.” Leaning back in her desk chair, Renee swiveled slightly, side-to-side. “A lot of CIs are when you work Illegals. He might’ve had some trouble on the street, with a supplier, a customer.”

  “He was still dealing?”

  “Small-time. Mostly zoner, and low grade at that. It’s the sort of thing we have to offset against potential information with a resource. You know how it is.”

  “Yeah, I do. When’s the last time you had contact with him?”

  “Let me check my log.” She turned to her comp, began to tap as she spoke. “You don’t have COD?”

  “He’s at the morgue, and I’ll be heading over there shortly.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you could give me your opinion, or the basic facts. He was mine, after all.”

  “Understood. It looked like an OD.”

  Renee pressed her lips together. “Something we’re always prepared for around here.”

  “But I’m not buying it.”

  The tapping stopped; an eyebrow quirked. “Oh? Why?”

  “Some variables. A few details I want a closer look at.”

  “You think he was murdered?”

  “It’s a strong possibility, in my opinion, at this time. You got that last contact?”

  “Yes, sorry. I spoke to him via ’link on July eight from fourteen-ten to fourteen-fourteen regarding a tip on a Zeus kitchen on Avenue D. It was good data. We shut it down two weeks ago.”

  “Could this have been a possible reprisal for passing the tip?”

  As if considering, Renee sat back, swiveled in the chair again. “I had some concerns in the last couple of months that he was using heavier, and when he went up too far, he lost his filter. He’d brag. If it turns out it wasn’t an OD, he might have said the wrong thing to the wrong person.”

  “You didn’t pay him off? On the tip?”

  “He hadn’t contacted me for payment yet. Which, yes, wasn’t usual. He’d normally be hot for payment. I can’t say I gave it much thought. We’re always busy here, and paying him wasn’t high on my to-do list until he made contact.”

  “You said he mostly dealt zoner. What did he tend to use?”

  “Whatever came to hand. He liked the needle.” Renee’s brow creased, her fingers tapped on her desk. “If he’d gone to ground, he was either working something or he’d gotten his hands on something prime and didn’t want anybody trying for a share until he’d had enough. How did you find him?”

  “I’ve got weasels of my own. One of them knew him, and the information I was given indicates Keener didn’t do that last pop on his own. I could use any information you can give me on him.”

  “Of course. But you understand I’d like to hold off on giving you his CI file until the ME determines COD. I don’t want to compromise confidentiality or any ongoing investigations if it turns out it was an OD.”

  “It wasn’t,” Eve said flatly. “If you’d prepare the data, I’ll expect it once I get COD.”

  The blue eyes frosted at Eve’s no-bullshit tone. “You’re very confident of your informant.”

  “I’m confident of my gut, and my gut says Keener crossed somebody who didn’t like being crossed.” Eve pushed to her feet. “I’ll find them. Thanks for your time, Lieutenant. I’ll be in touch.”

  She strode out. The hard smile didn’t spread until she was out of Illegals and on the way back to her own turf.

  Start scrambling, bitch, she thought, because I’ve got your number now.

  7

  EVE WENT STRAIGHT DOWN TO MIRA’S OFFICE. Time, she thought, to get to the meat of the pathology. Understanding the enemy could be, in Eve’s opinion, as deadly a weapon as a fully charged blaster.

  She paused in the outer office to steel herself for the expected confrontation with Mira’s dragon of an admin.

  “I need to see her.”

  “Yes. One moment.” The woman tapped the headset tucked over her ear. “Lieutenant Dallas is here. Yes . . . Absolutely.” She tapped it again. “She’s ready for you.”

  “You’re telling me I can go right in?”

  The admin tipped her head, making Eve wonder how she managed to move it at all under the impressive helmet of hair. “That’s correct.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Lieutenant, Doctor Mira is waiting for you. Her time is valuable, and you’re wasting it questioning me.”

  “Okay, that’s more in line.” Satisfied, Eve gave the door a brief rap, and walked in.

  Mira wore one of her pretty summer suits, this one cool as
a pitcher of lemonade. She’d swept her hair back in a clip of deep blue—matching the strappy heels that showed off toes painted dusky gold. She stood at the AutoChef, her back to Eve—programming, Eve had no doubt, cups of the herbal tea she favored.

  When she turned, Eve saw she’d let some trails of her deep brown hair curl around her face. And there was tension in the curve of her jaw, the set of her lips.

  “Have a seat,” she invited. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  Saying nothing—letting her take the lead—Eve lowered into one of Mira’s blue scoop chairs. She took the tea she didn’t actually like and waited.

  “The commander briefed me on the situation, and I’ve reviewed the files on Lieutenant Oberman and Detective Garnet.” Balancing her delicate cup and saucer, Mira sat, crossed her legs.

  “Okay.”

  “It’s not possible to have this discussion with you without saying that I know and respect Marcus Oberman.”

  “Join the crowd.”

  Mira sighed, sipped. “It’s difficult. This is difficult. I feel that respect, and a preconception that stemmed from it, might have influenced me in regard to Renee Oberman’s screening. I’m asking myself, Eve, if she’d been someone else would I have pressed harder, would I have looked deeper, would my evaluation have taken a different tone.”

  “What’s your answer?”

  “I’m afraid, in hindsight, it’s yes.” Mira’s soft blue eyes met Eve’s. “And that’s very difficult. If I hadn’t been influenced by who she was, whose daughter she was, she might not have been cleared for command. She might not now be in the position of power and authority she holds.”

  Eve frowned, nodded. “So we can blame you—and the commander, the review board, all her immediate supervisors along the way for boosting her up the ranks.”

  Mira smiled a little. “I’m aware I’m not responsible—solely responsible—for her position in the department. But thank you for that.”

  “She’s good. She’s closed a healthy number of cases and now runs a squad that does the same. She’s got no bumps, that show anyway. Which tells me something right off because if you’re a cop for going on eighteen years and don’t have a single bump, you’re not doing the job. You’re manipulating the job, your record, sliding around the tough stuff, holding back. Or greasing the right palms.

  “But on paper,” Eve concluded, “she’s good.”

  “I agree. It could be said she uses intellect, intimidation, and cajolery—whichever the situation calls for—as her primary tools. And those are valuable tools in police work. She’s never wounded or terminated a suspect or any individual on the job. Therefore, she’s never been through Testing, required of any officer who terminates.”

  “But’s she’s been screened, and she’s gone through the required psych evals.”

  “Yes. I conducted her initial screening and have done several of her annual evals. In the past several years, her evaluations have been conducted by Doctor Addams.”

  “Why?”

  “Practically speaking, the size of the department requires the use of multiple psychiatrists, psychologists, profilers, and so on. At the time, I thought nothing of it. In fact, didn’t notice. I see a great many officers and techs and department personnel, for a variety of reasons.”

  “I get that. I’m asking why she opted to trade in the best, the head of the line, for somebody down the ladder.”

  Mira took a moment to drink and, Eve thought, to consider her answer. “I can speculate she didn’t like my analyses, my questions, my style. I can further speculate she preferred a man.”

  “Because she believes she can more easily manipulate or influence or deceive males.”

  “Yes. She sees her sexuality as a tool. Again, it can be one, a useful one. Women are a threat, competitors. She prefers the company of men.”

  “No crime.”

  “No. No crime,” Mira repeated, “but perhaps a signal I should have heeded more closely. As she’s implicated in corruption, illegal activities, and a homicide, I can give you opinions, a profile, a broad analysis. I can’t, however, give you specific details gleaned from sessions.”

  Eve set the tea aside, tapped her fingers on her knee. “Let me try this. Hypothetically, a child—particularly an only child—whose father is revered in his profession. Demanding, time-consuming profession. He’s, in a very real sense, the gold standard in his field. That child might feel compelled to follow in his footsteps.”

  “Yes.” Relaxing a little, Mira leaned back in her chair. “Love for and pride in the parent, a lifetime of exposure to excellence and dedication. The need to feel love and pride reflected from the parent.”

  “Alternately, some might feel compelled to do exactly the opposite. Say the parent was a hugely successful businessman. One who acquired wealth and position through hard, honest work, long hours, skill, and dedication. The kid might decide to sit around on his lazy ass, or join a Free-Agers commune and grow tomatoes.”

  Mira smiled again. “Yes. Pressure to succeed, the child’s urge to rebel against parental expectation and authority, a desire to forge one’s own path.”

  “And another choice might be to go down that same path, but without the same skills, the same purity of purpose, say, the same innate dedication, or whatever it takes, the child might take some shortcuts. Still wants the pride, the glory, the status, but can’t get it Daddy’s way. Or just doesn’t especially want to. Saints can be hard to live up to. Gold standards tough to reach. That’s a pisser. But there are ways to get what you want, ways to build authority, to use that gold standard as an entree, even a shield, while smearing it.”

  Eve leaned forward now, punching her point. “There’s some satisfaction there because the fucker shouldn’t be so hard to live up to. Or shouldn’t have expected, demanded so much from the child. Got a saint for a father? Why not be a sinner, reap the rewards, while using the same path, and staying shiny on the outside.”

  “That’s an excellent thumbnail,” Mira said after a moment. “There would be more, of course, under the surface, rooted in childhood, in dynamics, in disposition. Some, in this hypothetical theory, would both revere and detest the source—the father. Some would crave the authority and position, and the power and privilege—the respect—that comes with it. Even be willing, perhaps eager, to expend the time and effort to achieve it. In their own way.”

  “Okay.” Eve set her hands on her knees. “Let’s get down to it. She’s dirty. Daddy’s the excuse. You can think of a reason if you want,” she said before Mira interrupted. “That’s not how I see it. Maybe she started off sliding on his name, using her brand of manipulation, putting in the time while she figured the angles, searched out the openings. Sucking up to or sucking off whoever was more useful.”

  Mira choked a little on her tea. “To put it bluntly,” she managed.

  “Sexuality as a tool, prefers the company of men. She wears a girly suit that shows off her tits, mile-high heels to show off her legs. To work.”

  Mira brushed lightly at the skirt of her girly suit. “Hmmm.”

  “You’re not a cop,” Eve returned. “It’s highly unlikely you’ll be drawn into a footrace today. And okay, neither will she because she sticks to her desk. She’s above the streets in her big, perfect office closed off from her scarily ordered squad.”

  “Scarily ordered?” Mira repeated.

  “Everybody’s in suits. Nobody’s got their jacket off. Every one of the men is wearing a tie—and none of them loosened. She’s shined, hair combed. Like any minute somebody’s due to come in to take a squad photo.

  “Everybody’s desk or cube or workstation is in perfect order. Nobody has any junk sitting around, or personal clutter. No photos, no toys, no empty coffee cups. No full ones either. And there’s no chatter. Nobody’s yelling across the room, nobody’s ragging anybody. I’ve never seen a squad room that clean, or cops so pressed, so quiet.”

  She pushed to her feet. “You could put it down to the boss’s
style, sure. She likes order and expects her cops to be turned out in suits. Illegals cops, for God’s sake, who’re going to be going out at some point and pushing at chemi-heads and dealers. But their shoes are nice and shined. More.”

  Eve glanced at Mira.

  “Yes, go on.”

  “She keeps the blinds down on her office. Big window, big door, with the blinds down and closed. She dresses like a CEO, one who secretly wouldn’t mind getting laid during her lunch break. Her desk’s clear, and there’s a fresh vase of flowers on it. Flowers, for ...”

  She spied the flowers on Mira’s desk.

  “You’re not a cop,” she said again. “And your desk is tidy, but not clear. You have family photos and little bits of stuff sitting around. Your space has a feel to it. It’s welcoming, comfortable. Which it has to be, sure, given you have to put people at ease. But it’s also who you are.

  “And I should probably think about what my office says about me, but that’s not important.”

  “I could tell you,” Mira murmured, but Eve was already moving on.

  “She’s got a painting on the wall, a good one. I have to admit I liked it. All moody, beach and ocean. She’s got a mirror. A cop with a mirror on the wall of her office? Says vanity to me. And a big picture of her father—full dress blues, commander’s rank. Formal shot.”

  “Where’s the picture situated?”

  Eve smiled, nodded. “Good question. On the wall opposite her desk.”

  “I see.” Mira nodded. “Using his status so anyone coming into her office would feel the connection. And she can look up, see him. So he can, symbolically, see her. What’s she’s doing, how she does it.”

  “Look at me. I’m a boss, too—and before much longer I’ll have captain’s bars. How do you like that, Dad? Oh, excuse me a minute, I have to order one of my men to go kill a pathetic junkie who tried a double cross. Stick that one up your perfect ass, Commander.”

  “I don’t disagree with anything you’ve just said.” Mira balled a fist in her lap, stared down at it a moment. “I’m so angry. I’m so damn angry I didn’t see what I should have in her. That I let myself be manipulated and influenced so I brushed aside the little niggles of doubts. So I told myself it was because I was holding her to a higher standard because of her father, and that was unfair and unprofessional.”