The In Death Collection, Books 11-15 Page 2

  “No. It seems my personnel director was careless. That will be fixed. Am I allowed inside?”

  “Yeah, in a minute. How long have you owned the place?”

  “Four years, more or less.”

  “How many employees, full- and part-time?”

  “I’ll get you all the data, Lieutenant, and answer all pertinent questions.” Annoyance gleamed in his eyes as he reached for the door himself. “But now, I’d like to see my place.”

  He pushed inside, scanned the destruction, then focused in on the thick black bag being loaded on what the death attendants called a stroller.

  “How was he killed?”

  “Thoroughly,” Eve said, then sighed when Roarke simply turned and stared at her. “It was ugly, okay? Metal bat.” She watched Roarke look toward the bar and the spray of blood sparkling on glass like an incomprehensible painting. “After the first few hits, he wouldn’t have felt anything.”

  “Ever had a bat laid into you? I have,” he said before she could answer. “It’s not pleasant. It seems far-fetched to think it’s robbery, even one that got well out of hand.”

  “Why?”

  “There’d have been enough prime liquor, easily fenced, to keep anyone cozily fixed for some time. Why break the bottles when you could sell them? If you hit a place like this, it’s not for the bit of cash that might be copped, but for the inventory and perhaps some of the equipment.”

  “Is that the voice of experience?”

  She teased a grin out of him. “Naturally. My experience, that is, as a property owner and a law-abiding citizen.”

  “Right.”

  “Security discs?”

  “Gone. He got all of them.”

  “Then it follows he’d cased the place carefully beforehand.”

  “How many cameras?”

  Once again, Roarke took out his pad, checked data. “Eighteen. Nine on this floor, six on two, and the other two on the top level for full scope. Before you ask, closing is at three, which would have staff out by half past. The last show, and we’ve live ones here, ends at two. The musicians and the entertainers—”

  “Strippers.”

  “As you like,” he said mildly. “They clock off at that time. I’ll have names and schedules for you within the hour.”

  “Appreciate it. Why Purgatory?”

  “The name?” The ghost of a smile flirted with his mouth. “I liked it. The priests will tell you Purgatory’s a place for atonement, rehabilitation perhaps. A bit like prison. I’ve always seen it as a last chance to be human,” he decided. “Before you strap on your wings and halo or face the fire.”

  “Which would you rather?” she wondered. “The wings or the fire?”

  “That’s the point, you see. I prefer being human.” As the stroller wheeled by, he ran a hand over her short brown hair. “I’m sorry for this.”

  “So am I. Any reason a New York City detective would have been working undercover in Purgatory?”

  “I couldn’t say. It’s certainly likely that some of the clientele might dabble in areas not strictly approved by the NYPSD, but I’ve not been informed of anything overt. Some illegals might change hands in privacy rooms or under tables, but there’s been no large transactions here. I would have known. The strippers don’t turn tricks unless they’re licensed, which some are. No one under age is allowed through the doors—as client or staff. I have my own standards, Lieutenant, such as they are.”

  “I’m not coming down on you. I need a picture.”

  “You’re pissed that I’m here at all.”

  She waited a minute, her short, choppy hair disordered from its dance outside in the early breeze. As the morgue techs opened the door to transfer Kohli, the sounds of the day punched into the club.

  Traffic was already thickening. Cars crammed irritably on the street, air commuters swarmed the skies. She heard the call of an early-bird glide-cart operator call to the techs and ask: “What da fuck?”

  “Okay, I’m pissed that you’re here at all. I’ll get over it. When’s the last time you were in here?”

  “Months. It ran well and didn’t need my direct attention.”

  “Who manages it for you?”

  “Rue MacLean. I’ll get her information to you as well.”

  “Sooner than later. Do you want to go through the place now?”

  “No point in it until I’ve refreshed myself on how it was. I’ll want to be let back in once I’ve done that.”

  “I’ll take care of it. Yes, Peabody?” she said, turning as her aide inched forward and cleared her throat.

  “Sorry, sir, but I thought you’d want to know I reached the victim’s squad captain. They’re sending a member of his unit and a counselor to inform next of kin. They need to know if they should wait for you or see the wife alone.”

  “Tell them to wait. We’ll head over now and meet them. I have to go,” she said to Roarke.

  “I don’t envy you your job, Lieutenant.” Because he needed it, he took her hand, linked their fingers firmly. “But I’ll let you get back to it. I’ll have the information you wanted to you as soon as I can.”

  “Roarke?” she called as he started for the door. “I’m sorry about your place.”

  “Wood and glass. There’s plenty more,” he replied as he looked at her over his shoulder.

  “He doesn’t mean it,” Eve murmured when he’d shut the door behind him.

  “Sir?”

  “They messed with him. He won’t let it go.” Eve heaved out a breath. “Come on, Peabody, let’s go see the wife and get this particular hell over with.”

  The Kohlis lived in a decent, midlevel building on the East Side. The kind of place, Eve mused, where you found young families and older retired couples. Not hip enough for the single crowd, not cheap enough for the struggling.

  It was a simple multiunit, pleasantly if not elegantly rehabbed post–Urban Wars.

  Door security was a basic code entry.

  Eve spotted the cops before she’d double-parked and flipped her On Duty light to active.

  The woman was well turned out, with gilt-edged hair that curved up to her cheeks in two stiletto points. She wore sun shades and an inexpensive business suit in navy. The shoes with their thin, two-inch heels told Eve she worked a desk.

  Brass. Eve was sure of it.

  The man had good shoulders and a bit of pudge at the middle. He’d let his hair go gray, and there was a lot of it. Currently, it was dancing in the breeze around his quiet, composed face. He wore cop shoes—hard-soled and buffed to a gleam. His suit jacket was a little small in the body and starting to fray at the cuffs.

  A long-timer, Eve judged, who’d moved from beat to street to desk.

  “Lieutenant Dallas.” The woman stepped forward but didn’t offer her hand for a polite shake. “I recognized you. You get a lot of play in the media.” It wasn’t said with rebuke, but there was a hint of it in the air, nonetheless. “I’m Captain Roth, from the One twenty-eight. This is Sergeant Clooney out of my house. He’s here as grief counselor.”

  “Thanks for waiting. Officer Peabody, my aide.”

  “What is the status of your investigation, Lieutenant?”

  “Detective Kohli’s body is with the ME and will have priority. My report will be written and filed subsequent to notification of next of kin.”

  She paused to avoid shouting over the sudden blast of a maxibus that pulled to the curb half a block down.

  “At this point, Captain Roth, I have a dead police officer who was the apparent victim of a particularly brutal beating in the early hours of this morning while he was in a club, after hours. A club where he was employed as a part-time bartender.”

  “Robbery?”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Then what is the motive, in your opinion?”

  A little seed of resentment planted itself in Eve’s gut. It would, she knew, fester there if she wasn’t careful. “I’ve formed no opinion as to motive at this stage of my investigati
on. Captain Roth, do you want to stand on the street and question me, or would you prefer to read my report when it’s filed?”

  Roth opened her mouth, then sucked in a breath. “Point taken, Lieutenant. Detective Kohli worked under me for five years. I’ll be straight with you. I want this investigation handled out of my house.”

  “I appreciate your feelings in this matter, Captain Roth. I can only assure you that as long as I’m primary, the investigation into the death of Detective Kohli will receive my complete focus.”

  Take off the damn shades, Eve thought. I want to see your eyes. “You can request the transfer of authority,” Eve continued. “But I’ll be straight with you. I won’t give it up easy. I stood over him this morning. I saw what was done to him. You couldn’t want his killer any more than I do.”

  “Captain.” Clooney stepped forward, laying a hand lightly on Roth’s arm at the elbow. There were lines fanning out from his pale blue eyes. They made him look tired and somehow trustworthy. “Lieutenant. Emotions are running pretty high right now. For all of us. But we’ve got a job to do here and now.”

  He glanced up, homing in on a window four stories above. “Whatever we’re feeling doesn’t come close to what’s going to be felt upstairs.”

  “You’re right. You’re right, Art. Let’s get this done.”

  Roth turned to the entrance, bypassed the code with her master.

  “Lieutenant?” Clooney hung back. “I know you’ll want to question Patsy, Taj’s wife. I have to ask if you could go a little easy just now. I know what she’s about to go through. I lost a son in the line of duty a few months back. It rips a hole in you.”

  “I’m not going to kick her while she’s down, Clooney.” Eve shoved through the doors, caught herself, turned back. “I didn’t know him,” she said more calmly, “but he was murdered, and he was a cop. That’s enough for me. Okay?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

  “Christ, I hate this.” She followed Roth to the elevator. “How do you do it?” she asked Clooney. “The counseling thing. How do you stand it?”

  “To tell you the truth, they tapped me for it because I have a way with keeping the peace. Mediation,” he added with a quick smile. “I agreed to survivor counseling, to give it a try, and found I could do some good. You know what they feel—every stage of it.”

  He pressed his lips together as they stepped onto the elevator. The smile was long gone. “You stand it because maybe you can help . . . just a little. It makes a difference if the counselor’s a cop. And I’ve discovered in the last few months it makes a bigger one if the counselor’s a cop who experienced a loss. You ever lose a family member, Lieutenant?”

  Eve flashed on a dingy room, the bloody husk of a man, and the child she’d been, huddled broken in a corner. “I don’t have any family.”

  “Well . . .” was all Clooney said as they stepped off on the fourth floor.

  She would know, and they were all aware of it. A cop’s spouse would know the minute she opened the door. How the words were spoken varied little, and it didn’t matter a damn. The minute the door opened, lives were irrevocably changed.

  They didn’t have the chance to knock before it began.

  Patsy Kohli was a pretty woman with smooth, ebony skin and a closely cropped thatch of black curls. She was dressed to go out, a baby sling strapped across her breasts. The small boy at her side had his hand clasped in hers as he danced frantically in place.

  “Let’s go swing! Let’s go swing!”

  But his mother had frozen in place, the laughter that had been in her eyes dying away. She lifted one hand, pressing it to the baby, and the baby to her heart.

  “Taj.”

  Roth had taken off her sunshades. Her eyes were coldly blue, rigidly blank. “Patsy. We need to come in.”

  “Taj.” Patsy stood where she was, slowly shaking her head. “Taj.”

  “Here now, Patsy.” Clooney moved in, sliding an arm around her shoulders. “Why don’t we sit down?”

  “No. No. No.”

  The little boy began to cry, wailing yelps as he tugged on his mother’s unresponsive hand. Both Roth and Eve looked down at him with stares of sheer, hot panic.

  Peabody eased inside, crouched down to his level.

  “Hi, pal.”

  “Going swing,” he said pitifully, while great tears spilled down his chubby cheeks.

  “Yeah. Lieutenant, why don’t I take the boy out?”

  “Good idea. Good thinking.” Her stomach was busily tying itself into knots at the rising sobs. “Mrs. Kohli, with your permission, my officer will take your son outside for awhile. I think that would be best.”

  “Chad.” Patsy stared down as if coming out of a dream. “We’re going to the park. Two blocks over. The swings.”

  “I’ll take him, Mrs. Kohli. We’ll be fine.” With an ease that had Eve frowning, Peabody lifted the boy, set him on her hip. “Hey, Chad, you like soy dogs?”

  “Patsy, why don’t you give me your little girl there.” Gently, Clooney unhooked the sling, slipped the baby free. Then, to Eve’s shock, he passed the bundle to her.

  “Oh listen, I can’t—”

  But Clooney was already guiding Pasty to the sofa, and Eve was left holding the bag. Or so she thought of it. Wincing, she looked down, and when big, black eyes stared curiously up at her, her palms went damp.

  And when the baby said, “Coo,” she lost all the spit in her mouth.

  She searched the room for help. Clooney and Roth were already flanking Pasty, and Clooney’s voice was a quiet murmur. The room was small and lived-in, with a scatter of toys on the rug and a scent—one she didn’t recognize—that was talc and crayons and sugar. The scent of children.

  But she spotted a basket of neatly folded laundry on the floor by a chair. Perfect, she decided and, with the care of a woman handling a homemade boomer, laid the baby on top.

  “Stay,” she whispered, awkwardly patting the dark, downy head.

  And started to breathe again.

  She tuned back into the room, saw the woman on the sofa gathered into herself, rocking, rocking, with her hands gripped in Clooney’s. She made no sound, and her tears fell like rain.

  Eve stayed out of the way, watched Clooney work, watched the unity of support stand on either side of the widow. This, she thought, was family. For what it was worth. And in times like this, it was all there could be.

  Grief settled into the room like fog. It would, she knew, be a long time before it burned away again.

  “It’s my fault. It’s my fault.” They were the first words Patsy spoke since she’d sat on the sofa.

  “No.” Clooney squeezed her hands until she lifted her head. They needed to look in your eyes, he knew. To believe you, to take comfort, they needed to see it all in your eyes. “Of course it’s not.”

  “He’d never have been working there if not for me. I didn’t want to go back to work after Jilly was born. I wanted to stay home. The money, the professional mother’s salary was so much less than—”

  “Patsy, Taj was happy you were content to stay home with the children. He was so proud of them and of you.”

  “I can’t—Chad.” She pulled her hands free, pressed them to her face. “How can I tell him? How can we live without Taj? Where is he?” She dropped her hands, looked around blindly. “I have to go see him. Maybe there’s a mistake.”

  It was, Eve knew, her time. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kohli, there’s no mistake. I’m Lieutenant Dallas. I’m in charge of the investigation.”

  “You saw Taj.” Patsy got shakily to her feet.

  “Yes. I’m sorry, very sorry for your loss. Can you talk to me, Mrs. Kohli? Help me find the person who did this?”

  “Lieutenant Dallas,” Roth began, but Patsy shook her head.

  “No, no. I want to talk. Taj would want me to. He’d want . . . Where’s Jilly? Where’s my baby?”

  “I, ah . . .” Feeling sticky again, Eve gestured to the hamper.

  “Oh.”
Patsy wiped tears from her face, smiled. “She’s so good. Such a love. She hardly ever cries. I should put her in her crib.”

  “I’ll do that for you, Patsy.” Clooney rose. “You talk to the lieutenant.” He gave Eve a quiet look, full of sorrow and understanding. “That’s what Taj would want. Do you want us to call someone for you? Your sister?”

  “Yes.” Patsy drew in a breath. “Yes, please. If you’d call Carla for me.”

  “Captain Roth will do that for you, won’t you, Captain? While I put the baby down.”

  Roth struggled, set her teeth. It didn’t surprise Eve to see the annoyance. Clooney had essentially taken over, gently. And this wasn’t a woman who liked taking orders from her sergeant.

  “Yes, of course.” With a final warning look at Eve, she walked into the next room.

  “Are you with Taj’s squad?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “No, no, of course.” Patsy rubbed her temple. “You’d be with Homicide.” She started to break, the sound coming through her lips like a whimper. And Eve watched with admiration as she toughened up. “What do you want to know?”

  “Your husband didn’t come home this morning. You weren’t concerned?”

  “No.” She reached back, braced a hand on the arm of the couch, and lowered herself down. “He’d told me he’d probably go into the station from the club. He sometimes did that. And he said he was meeting someone after closing.”

  “Who?”

  “He didn’t say, just that he had someone to see after closing.”

  “Do you know of anyone who wished him harm, Mrs. Kohli?”

  “He was a cop,” she said simply. “Do you know anyone who wishes you harm, Lieutenant?”

  Fair enough, Eve thought and nodded. “Anyone specific? Someone he mentioned to you.”

  “No. Taj didn’t bring work home. It was a point of honor for him, I think. He didn’t want anything to touch his family. I don’t even know what cases he was working on. He didn’t like to talk about it. But he was worried.”

  She folded her hands tightly in her lap, stared down at them. Stared, Eve noted, at the gold band on her finger. “I could tell he was worried about something. I asked him about it, but he brushed it off. That was Taj,” she managed with a trembling smile. “He had, well some people would say it was a male dominant thing, but it was just Taj. He was old-fashioned about some things. He was a good man. A wonderful father. He loved his job.”