Judgment in Death Page 8

  “But how clever of him to have selected you, a woman of your more subtle attributes and profession. It must be very convenient for him to have such an intimate ally on the police force.”

  It was meant to get a rise out of her, so she only angled her head. “Really? And why would that be convenient for him, Mr. Ricker?”

  “Given his interests.” Ricker sipped his drink. “Business interests.”

  “And does his business concern you, Mr. Ricker?”

  “Only in an academic sense, as we were once connected. So to speak.”

  She leaned forward. “Would you like to speak, on record, about your connections?”

  His eyes narrowed, snakelike. “Would you risk him, Lieutenant?”

  “Roarke can take care of himself. Can you?”

  “Have you tamed him, Lieutenant? Neutered the wolf and made him a lapdog?”

  This time she laughed, and meant it. “The lapdog would rip out your throat without breathing hard. And you know it. I had no idea you were so afraid of him. That’s interesting.”

  “You’re mistaken.” But his fingers had tightened on the tube.

  She watched his throat work, as if he were struggling to swallow something particularly vile.

  “I don’t think so. But Roarke isn’t the reason I’m here. It’s your business I’d like to discuss, Mr. Ricker.” She took out her recorder. “With your permission.”

  His lips curved, a hard line under that brush of silver that was nothing like a smile. “Of course.” And he tapped a finger on the arm of his chair. Across the room a hologram swam into view. Six dark-suited men sat side by side at a long table, hands folded, eyes sharp.

  “My attorneys,” he explained.

  Eve set the recorder on the silver table between them, read off the necessary data, and recited the revised Miranda.

  “You’re thorough. Roarke would appreciate that. As do I.”

  “You understand your rights and obligations, Mr. Ricker?”

  “I do indeed.”

  “And you have engaged your right to have your attorneys—all six of them—present at this informal interview. You were arrested six months ago for . . .” She held up a hand, and though she knew the charges by rote, took out her memo book and read them off precisely. “The manufacture, possession, and distribution of illegal substances including hallucinogens and known addictives, the international and interplanetary transportation of illegal substances, possession of banned weapons, the operation of chemical plants without a license, the—”

  “Lieutenant, to save us both valuable time, I will state that I was aware of all charges levied against me at the time of my unfortunate arrest last fall. As I’m sure you are aware that most of those ridiculous charges were subsequently dropped, and those that were not resulted in a trial in which I was acquitted.”

  “I’m aware that your attorneys and the prosecuting attorney of New York negotiated a deal in which several of the more minor charges against you were dropped. In return, the names of four arms and illegals dealers and information against them were given to the PA’s office through your representative. You’re not overly loyal to your associates, Mr. Ricker.”

  “On the contrary, I’m exceedingly loyal to them. I have no associates who are arms and/or illegal dealers, Lieutenant. I’m a businessman, one who makes considerable donations to charitable and political causes every year.”

  “Yes, I know about your political donations. You gave generously to an organization known as Cassandra.”

  “I did.” He lifted a hand as one of his attorneys started to speak. “And was shocked, shocked to the bone, when I discovered their terrorist activities. You did the world a great service, Lieutenant, by breaking open that ugly sphere, by destroying it. Until the story came out in the media, I had been deluded into believing the Cassandra group was dedicated to insuring the safety and rights of the American public; yes, through paramilitary means. But legal ones.”

  “A pity you didn’t research Cassandra more closely, Mr. Ricker, as I would assume someone with your resources would do before he tossed in more than ten million of his hard-earned dollars.”

  “A mistake I deeply regret. The employee who oversaw the donations has since been terminated.”

  “I see. You were scheduled for trial on several of the charges, not within the scope of the deal with the prosecutor’s office. However, evidence went missing, and certain data from the operation leading to and including the raid on the warehouse owned by you was damaged.”

  “Is that the official word for it?” He tossed his head, causing his silver wings to flutter. “The data was thin, incomplete, and ridiculously weighted with misinformation by the police in order to arrange for the attack on a warehouse which, though one of my properties, was run and operated by an independent contractor.”

  His eyes began to gleam, she noted, his voice to rise, and those lethally tipped fingers to beat a fast tattoo on the arm of the chair.

  “The entire matter was nothing more than police harassment, and my attorneys are looking into a suit against the NYPSD as a result.”

  “What is your connection with Detective Taj Kohli?”

  “Kohli?” He continued to smile, the hard glitter bright in his eyes. “I’m afraid that name doesn’t ring a bell. I do have acquaintance with many in your profession, Lieutenant. I am a strong supporter of the men and women who serve. But that particular name. . . Wait, wait.”

  He rubbed a finger against his lips, and damn him, she heard the light chuckle. “Kohli, yes, of course. I heard about the tragedy. He was killed recently, wasn’t he?”

  “Kohli was on the task force that busted your New York warehouse and cost you several million dollars in goods.”

  “Mr. Ricker was never legally connected to the warehouse, labs, or distribution center in New York City, which was discovered by and closed down by the New York City Police and Security Department. We object to the statement claiming otherwise being read into this record.”

  The lawyer’s voice droned, but neither Ricker nor Eve bothered to glance in his direction.

  “It’s most unfortunate that your Detective Kohli was killed, Lieutenant. Am I to be questioned every time a police officer meets a tragic end? It could be construed as additional harassment.”

  “No, it couldn’t, as the request for this interview was granted without condition.” Now she smiled. “I’m sure your fleet of lawyers will verify that. Kohli worked details, Mr. Ricker. He was good at details. As a businessman, and man of the world, I’m sure you’ll agree that the truth is in them—and the truth has a way of surfacing, no matter how deep it’s buried. It just takes the right person to dig it out. I have a real fondness for the truth and a serious objection to having a fellow officer executed. So finding that truth, and finding the person who killed Kohli—or arranged for it—is going to be a personal mission of mine.”

  “I’m sure it offends you to have had your colleague murdered, and brutally, in an establishment owned by your husband.” Excitement jangled in his voice, just a little off-key. “Sticky, isn’t it, Lieutenant? For both of you. Is that why you’re troubling me with veiled accusations rather than calling your own husband into Interview?”

  “I didn’t say the murder was brutal or that it took place in an establishment owned by Roarke. How did you come by that information, Mr. Ricker?”

  For the first time, he appeared flustered, his stare going blank, his mouth drooping. All six lawyers began talking at once, a buzz of noise that was no more than cover and wasted air. It gave Ricker time to compose himself.

  “I make it my business to know things, Lieutenant. My business. I was informed that there was an incident at one of your husband’s properties.”

  “Informed by who?”

  “Another associate, I believe.” He waved a hand idly, but it curled into a fist before it rested on the arm of the chair again. “I can’t recall. Is it against the law to have that information? I collect information. A kind o
f hobby. Information on people who interest me. Such as yourself. I’m aware, you see, that you were raised by the state, found in considerable distress when you were but a child of eight.”

  His hand uncurled as he spoke, but his eyes grew brighter. Hungrier, Eve thought. Like a man anticipating a particularly fine meal.

  “Raped, weren’t you, and quite violently. It must be difficult to live with a trauma such as that, to reconcile yourself to such viciously stolen innocence. You don’t even have your own name, do you, but one given to you by a harried social worker. Eve, a rather sentimental choice, indicating the first woman. And Dallas, a practical one, reflecting the city where you were discovered, broken, bruised, and all but mute in a filthy alley.”

  It did the job. It took her back, slicked her insides with illness, chilled her bones. But she never took her eyes off his face. Never flinched. “We play the cards we were dealt. I collect information, too. Mostly on people who disturb my sense of style. Dig up all the data you want on me, Ricker. It’ll only help you get a good, clear picture of just who you’re up against this time. Kohli’s mine now, and I’ll find the who and why and how for him. Depend on it. Interview end,” she said, and picked up her recorder.

  Even as his lawyers erupted with warnings and objections, Ricker clicked off the hologram. If possible, he was paler than he’d been when she’d come in. “Be careful, Lieutenant. Those who threaten me meet unpleasant ends.”

  “Look at my data again, Ricker, and you’ll see the unpleasant doesn’t worry me.”

  He rose as she did, took a step forward in a way that had her bracing and hoping, hoping he’d lose control just for an instant. An instant would be long enough. “You think you can pit yourself against me? You think your badge is power.” He snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Like that, you can be gone and forgotten.”

  “Try it. And see.”

  Muscles worked in his face, but he drew himself back. “Perhaps you believe, mistakenly, that your connection to Roarke will protect you. He’s weak, gone soft and sentimental, and over a cop. I had plans for him once. I have different ones now.”

  “You’d better take a closer look at your data, Ricker, and you’ll see I don’t and never have needed anyone to protect me. But I’ll tell you this: Roarke’s going to get a real kick out of knowing just how much you fear him. We’ll have a good laugh over it, over you, later.”

  When she turned, he grabbed her arm. Her heart leapt in anticipation as she looked up coolly. “Oh, please do,” she murmured.

  His fingers dug in once, viciously, the nails drilling into her flesh before they released. Control? she thought. No, he wasn’t nearly as controlled as he believed he was.

  “I’ll show you out.”

  “I know the way. You’d better get to work, Ricker, make sure you’ve covered your tracks. I’m going to be turning up every rock you crawl under. I’m going to enjoy it.”

  She strolled out, unsurprised to see the servant droid hovering close by and smiling homily. “I hope you enjoyed your visit, Lieutenant Dallas. I’ll see you to the door.”

  As she walked away, Eve heard the unmistakable sound of glass smashing.

  No, she thought and smiled herself. Not nearly as controlled.

  She was taken back to her car and was watched carefully as she drove through the gates.

  Ten minutes later, she spotted the first tail. They didn’t even try to be subtle about it. She let them tag her, kept her speed just over the legal limit, and passed another twenty miles before the second car swung on from a ramp and pulled in front of her. Caged her in.

  Let’s play, she decided, and hit the accelerator.

  She changed lanes, threaded through traffic, but didn’t make it too hard for them. As she calculated the lay of the land, she made a call on her ’link. Almost casually.

  With what she hoped looked like panic, she pulled off the freeway just over the New York line. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down,” she murmured as the cars closed in behind her. “Morons.”

  Satisfied the road was quiet enough, she punched the accelerator again, flew along. Then swung in a hard circle and drove headlong toward the pursuing cars. One veered right, one left, and at the speed they were traveling, they skidded off the road just as she hit her sirens.

  She hopped out, weapon drawn.

  “Police! Out! Everybody out, hands where I can see them.” She saw the passenger in the second car reach inside his jacket, and she shot a blast at the headlights.

  Glass exploded even as the screams of other sirens joined hers.

  “Get your asses out of those vehicles right now.” With her free hand, she whipped out her badge. “NYPSD. You’re under arrest.”

  One of the drivers got out, looking cocky. But he kept his hands in sight as two black and whites pulled up behind. “What’s the charge?”

  “Why don’t we start with speeding and go from there.” She jerked a thumb. “Hands on the roof. You know the position.”

  The uniforms swarmed in like bees. “Want them cuffed, Lieutenant?”

  “Yeah, I think they were resisting. And would you look at this?” She stopped patting down the first driver and plucked out his side arm. “Concealed weapon. Man, a banned weapon, too. Wow, you’re in really big trouble.”

  A quick search turned up more weapons, six ounces of Exotica, two of Zeus, a fancy set of burglary tools, and three short steel pipes, handy for spine cracking.

  “Haul these losers into Central for me, will you?” she asked the uniforms. “Book them on carrying concealed, possession of illegals, transporting banned weapons in a motor vehicle, and crossing state lines with same. Possession of suspicious merchandise.”

  She grinned fiercely as she dusted off her hands. “Oh, and don’t forget speeding. Mr. Ricker’s going to be very unhappy with you boys. Very unhappy.”

  She slid back into her car, rolled her shoulders.

  Temper, temper, Ricker, she thought, and rubbed absently at the ache where his fingers had dug. Never give orders when in emotional distress.

  Round one goes to me.

  chapter six

  Ian McNab tried to look casual as he wandered into the detectives’ bullpen. It wasn’t easy for a man sporting a waist-long braid and wearing orange flight pants to look casual, but he worked at it.

  He had an excuse for being in that area. A few of the detectives had tossed run requests on the witnesses listed in the Kohli case over to EDD. That was McNab’s story, and he was sticking to it.

  He also had a reason for being in that area. And the reason was tucked into a skinny cubicle in the far corner, studiously doing tech work.

  She looked so cute when she was studious. He was gone on her, all right. He wasn’t particularly happy about it, as his plan had always been to scoop as many women into his life as humanly possible. He just plain loved women.

  But then Peabody had marched into his life in her ugly cop shoes and spit-spot uniform, and that, as the historians say, was that.

  She wasn’t completely cooperating. Oh, he’d finally gotten her into bed—on the kitchen floor, in an elevator car, in an empty locker room—and anywhere else his fluid imagination could devise. But she wasn’t moony over him.

  He was forced to admit, though it grated daily, that he was well over that moon as regarded Officer Delia Peabody.

  He squeezed into her cubicle, settled his skinny butt on the corner of her desk. “Hey, She-Body. What’s up?”

  “What are you doing out of EDD?” She kept right on working, didn’t even glance up. “You break your chain again?”

  “They don’t lock us up in EDD like they do over here. How do you work in this cage?”

  “Efficiently. Go away, McNab. I’m really swamped here.”

  “The Kohli deal? It’s all anybody can talk about. Poor son of a bitch.”

  Because there was pity in his voice, she did glance up. And noted that his eyes, cool and green, weren’t just sad. They were pissed. “Yeah. Well, we
’ll get the slime who killed him. Dallas is working the angles.”

  “Nobody does it better. Some of the guys here asked us to run some names. Everybody in EDD from Feeney down to the lowest drone’s on it.”

  She worked up a sneer. “Why aren’t you?”

  “I was elected to swing over and see if I could wangle an update. Come on, Peabody, we’re in it, too. Give me something to take back.”

  “I don’t have that much. Keep this part to yourself,” she said, lowering her voice and peeking through the narrow opening of her work space. “I don’t know what Dallas is up to. She went out in the field and didn’t take me with her. Didn’t tell me where she was going, either. Then a few minutes ago, I get a call from her. She’s got uniforms bringing in four mopes, booking them on various charges, including carrying concealeds, and she wants me to run the names quick, fast, and now. She’s on her way in.”

  “What’d you find?”

  “All four of them have been guests of various government facilities, mostly violent crimes. Assaults, assaults with deadlies. Spine-crackers and persuaders, from the sheets. But get this.”

  She lowered her voice even more, so that McNab had to lean in, catch a teasing whiff of her shampoo. “They’re connected to Max Ricker.”

  McNab opened his mouth, then sucked in the exclamation when Peabody hissed at him. “You think Ricker’s behind the Kohli deal?”

  “I don’t know, but I know Kohli was part of the team that busted him last fall, because Dallas had me get the case file and the trial transcript. I took a quick look, and Kohli was low level, didn’t testify, either. Of course, the case was tossed out of court within three days. But Dallas has some reason for hauling in four of his goon squad.”

  “This is good stuff.”

  “You can pass on the mopes she’s bringing in, but keep quiet about the Ricker connection until we’ve got more.”

  “I could do that, but I want some incentive. How about you come by tonight?”