Judgment in Death

CHAPTER TWO

"That was a rough one."

"Yeah." Eve pulled away from the curb and tried to shake the weight she'd carried out of the Kohli apartment with her. "She'll hold it together for the kids. She's got spine."

"Great kids. The little boy's a real piece of work. Conned me into a soy dog, three chocolate sticks, and a fudgy cone."

"Bet he really had to twist your arm."

Peabody 's smile was sweet. "I've got a nephew about his age."

"You have nephews every possible age."

"More or less."

"Tell me something, through your vast experience with family. You got a husband and wife, seem pretty tight, good, solid marriage, kids. Why would the wife, who appears to have a backbone and a brain, know next to nothing about her husband's job? His business, his day-to-day routine?"

"Maybe he likes to check work at the door."

"Doesn't play for me," Eve muttered. "You live with someone day after day, you have to know what they do, what they think, what they're into. She said he was worried about something but doesn't know what. Didn't press it."

She shook her head, frowning as she wove through crosstown traffic. "I don't get that."

"You and Roarke have a different couple dynamic."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Well." Peabody slid her eyes over to Eve's profile. "That was a nice way of saying neither one of you would let the other get away with holding back. Something's going on with one of you, the other sniffs it out and hammers away until it's all out there. You're both nosy, and just mean enough not to let the other one slide by. Now, you take my aunt Miriam."

"Do I have to?"

"What I'm saying is, she and Uncle Jim have been married for over forty years. He goes to work every day, comes home every night. They have four kids, eight, no, nine grandkids, and a very happy life. She doesn't even know how much he makes a year. He just gives her an allowance-"

Eve nearly back-ended a Rapid Cab. "A what?"

"Yeah, well, I said you have a different dynamic. Anyway, he gives her the house money and stuff. She'll ask how his day was, he'll say it was fine, and that's the end of the topic of work." She shrugged. "That's how it goes for them. Now, my cousin Freida-"

"I get the point, Peabody." Eve engaged the car-link and called the ME.

She was transferred directly to Morse, in autopsy.

"I'm still working on him, Dallas." Morse's face was uncharacteristically sober. "He's a goddamn mess."

"I know it. You got the tox reports yet?"

"I tagged them first. No illegals in his system. He'd had a couple ounces of beer, some pretzels just prior to death. It appears he was having the beer when he was hit. Last meal, some six hours before, was a chicken sandwich on whole wheat, pasta salad. Coffee. At this point, I can tell you the victim was in excellent health and good physical condition before some son of a bitch pounded him to pieces."

"Okay. The skull fracture the killing blow?"

"Didn't I say I was still working on him?" Morse's voice sliced out, laser sharp. Before Eve could respond, he held up a hand, protectively sealed and bloody to the wrist. "Sorry. Sorry. I can piece this much together. The assailant came at him from behind. First blow to the back of the head. Facial lacerations indicate the victim hit glass, face first. The second blow, jaw strike, took him down. Then the bastard opened his head like a goddamn peanut. He'd have been dead before he felt it. The other injuries are postmortem. I don't have a final count of those injuries."

"You gave me what I needed. Sorry for the push."

"No, it's on me." Morse puffed out his cheeks. "I knew him, so it's a little too personal. He was a decent guy, liked to show off holo-shots of his kids. We don't get many happy faces around here." His eyes narrowed on hers. "I'm glad he's yours, Dallas. It helps knowing he's yours. You'll have my report by end of shift."

He broke transmission and left her staring at a blank screen.

"Popular guy," Eve commented. "Who had it so in for a decent guy, proud daddy, loving husband? Who's going to beat a cop to a bloody pulp, knowing the system bands together to collar a cop killer? Somebody hated our popular guy in a big, nasty way."

"Somebody he'd busted?"

You couldn't worry about the ones you busted, Eve mused. But you always kept them in mind. "A cop has a drink with and turns his back on someone he's busted, he's asking to have his head bashed in. Let's pump up the speed on getting all his records, Peabody. I want to see what kind of cop Taj Kohli was."

– =O=-***-=O=-

Eve stepped into the squad room, had just turned toward her office, when a woman stood up from a bench in the waiting area.

"Lieutenant Dallas?"

"That's right."

"I'm Rue MacLean. I've just heard about Taj. I…" She lifted her hands. "Roarke indicated you'd want to speak to me, so I thought I'd come in right away. I want to help."

"I appreciate that. Just one moment. Peabody." She stepped aside with her aide. "Give the record drones a boost on Kohli, then run his financials."

"Sir? His financials?'

"That's right. You run into any blocks on that, call Feeney in EDD. Do some digging. Find out who he was tight with in his squad. He didn't talk to his wife about work, maybe he talked to someone else. I want to know if he had any hobbies, side interests. And I want to know what case files he was working on or was looking into. I want his life in front of me by end of shift."

"Yes, sir."

"Ms. MacLean? I'd like to take you into an interview room. My office is a little cramped."

"Whatever you like. I can't believe this happened. I just can't understand how it could happen."

"We'll talk about it." On the record. Eve thought, as she led Rue through the warren of Central to the interview area. "I'd like to record this," she said and gestured Rue into the boxlike room with a single table and two chairs.

"Of course. I only want to help."

"Have a seat." Eve activated the recorder. "Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, in interview with MacLean, Rue. Subject has volunteered to cooperate, on record, in the matter of Kohli, Taj. Homicide. I appreciate you coming in, Ms. MacLean."

"I don't know what I can tell you that might help."

"You manage the club where Taj Kohli worked as part-time bartender?"

She was just the type Roarke would choose, Eve thought. Slick, sleek, lovely. Deep purple eyes, full of concern now, that shone like jewels against creamy skin.

Delicate features, close to elegant, with just a hint of steel in the line of the chin. Curvy, petite, and perfectly groomed in a plum-colored skirt suit that skimmed her body and showed off great legs.

Her hair was the color of sunlight and was drawn severely back in a fashion that required perfect confidence and good bones.

"Purgatory. Yes, I've managed the club for four years now."

"And before that?"

"I was hostess at a small club downtown. Prior to that, I was a dancer. A performer," she added with a thin smile. "I decided I wanted to move off the stage and into management where I could keep my clothes on. Roarke gave me the opportunity to do so, first at Trends as hostess, then as manager of Purgatory. Your husband appreciates ambition, Lieutenant."

That was an avenue best not traveled on record. "Are part of your duties as manager of Purgatory the hiring of employees?"

"Yes. I hired Taj. He was looking for part-time work. His wife had just had a baby and was opting for professional mother status. He needed some extra money, was willing to work the late shift, and being happily married, wasn't likely to hit on the talent."

"Are those the only requirements for employment at Purgatory?"

"No, but they matter." Rue lifted her fingers. She wore a single ring, a trio of stones twisted together like snakes and studded with stones the same color as her eyes. "He knew how to mix drinks, how to serve. He had a good eye for troublemakers. I didn't know he was a cop. His application stated he worked in security, and it checked out."

"What company?"

"Lenux. I contacted the office, spoke with his supervisor-well, or so I assumed-and was given his employment record. I had no reason to question it, and his record was solid. I hired him on a two-week probationary, he did the job, and we went from there."

"Do you have the contact at Lenux in your files?"

"Yes." Rue blew out a breath. "I've already tried to call. All I got this time around was that the code had been discontinued."

"I'd like it anyway. Just to follow up."

"Of course." Rue reached into her bag, took out a day book. "I don't know why he didn't tell me he was a cop," she said as she keyed in the code number on an e-memo for Eve. "Maybe he thought I wouldn't hire him. But when you figure the owner's a cop-"

"I don't own the club."

"No, well." She shrugged and handed Eve the memo.

"He was in the club after closing. Is that standard?"

"No, but it isn't unheard of. Routinely, the head bartender on duty and one of the security team close up together. Taj was serving as head last night, and according to my records, it was Nester Vine's turn to close with him. I haven't been able to reach Nester as yet."

"Are you in the club every night?"

"Five nights a week. Sundays and Mondays off. I was there last night until two-thirty. The place was clearing out, and one of the girls was having a bad night. Boyfriend trouble. I took her home, held her hand for awhile, then went home myself."

"What time was that?"

"When I went home?" Rue blinked a moment. "About three-thirty, quarter to four, I guess."

"The name of the woman you were with until that time?"

"Mitzi." Rue drew in a breath. "Mitzi Treacher. Lieutenant, the last time I saw Taj, he was alive and working the bar."

"I'm just putting the facts on record, Ms. MacLean. Do you have a take on Detective Kohli's state of mind the last time you saw him?"

"He seemed fine. We didn't talk much last night. I stopped by the bar for some mineral water a couple of times. How's it going, busy night, that kind of thing. God." She squeezed her eyes shut. "He was a nice man. Quiet, steady. Always called his wife on his early break to see how she was doing."

"He use the bar phone?"

"No. We discourage personal calls, barring emergencies, on the business line. He used his palm-link."

"Did he use it last night?"

"I don't know. He always did. I can't say I noticed. No, wait." This time she closed her eyes and seemed to drift. "He was eating a sandwich, back in the break room. I remember walking by. The door was open. He was making cooing noises. Talking to the baby," she said, opening her eyes again. "I remember that because it was so sweet and silly, hearing this big bruiser of a guy make baby noises into the 'link. Is it important?"

"Just trying to get a picture." There hadn't been a palm-link on or near the body, Eve recalled. "Did you notice anyone who came in last night or any other night when he was on? Somebody he knew, hung out at the bar with him?"

"No. We've got some regulars, of course. People who come in several times a week. Taj got so he'd know their usual drinks. Clients appreciate that."

"Did he get tight with anyone who worked there?"

"Not particularly. Like I said, he was a quiet guy. Friendly enough, but he didn't hang with anyone in particular. He did the bartender thing. Watched, listened."

"Do you keep a metal bat behind the bar?"

"It's legal," Rue said quickly, then paled. "Is that what-"

"Did Taj ever have occasion to use it or threaten to?"

"He never used it." She rubbed her upper chest with the flat of her hand in long, soothing strokes. "He had it out once or twice, I guess. Tapped it on the bar as a deterrent. That's mostly all you need, especially with a guy his size. The club's upscale. We rarely have any real trouble there. I run a clean place, Lieutenant. Roarke won't tolerate less."

– =O=-***-=O=-

The preliminary report was straightforward, and for Eve, unsatisfactory. She had the facts. A dead cop, bludgeoned to death with serious overkill and the wild destruction that pointed to an addict popping on Zeus or some lethal combination of illegals. A sloppy attempt to cover with the look of attempted robbery, a missing palm-link, and thirty loose credit chips.

The victim was apparently moonlighting to supplement his family income, had no blemishes or commendations on his service record, was well liked by his associates, and loved by his family. He had not, at least as far as she had uncovered, lived above his means, engaged in extramarital affairs, or been involved with a hot case that could have led to his death.

On the surface, it looked like just bad luck. But she was damned if that suit fit.

She brought his ID photo up on her screen, studied it. Big guy, with a proud look in his eyes. Firm jaw, wide shoulders.

"Somebody wanted you out, Kohli. Who'd you piss off?"

She shifted, sat up again. "Computer, run probability. Current case file, scheming cause of death and ME prelim, running primary's report on victim. What is the probability that victim Kohli knew his assailant?"

Working… Probability, given known data and primary's report is ninety-three point four percent that victim Kohli knew his assailant.

"Yeah, well, good for me." She leaned forward, scooped her fingers through her hair. "Who do cops know? Other cops, weasels, bad guys, family. Neighbors. Who do bartenders know?" She let out a short laugh. "Every fucking body. Which hat were you wearing for your meet this morning, Detective?"

"Lieutenant?" Peabody poked her head in the door. "I've got Kohli's current case load. There's no record of him asking for files other than apply to his open logs. I ran into a trip with the financials. Everything's jointly owned, so we need a warrant or spousal permission to poke around."

"I'll take care of it. Full service record?"

"Right here. Nothing special caught my eye. He was in on a big bust about six months ago. Some dealer named Ricker."

"Max Ricker?"

"Yeah. Kohli was down in the feeding chain, mostly leg or drone work. He didn't get the collar, that went to a Lieutenant Mills and Detective Martinez. They tied the warehouse of illegals to Ricker, got him indicted, but he slipped through. Still, they nailed six others in the cartel."

"Ricker's not the type to ruin his manicure by getting blood on the polish. But he wouldn't think twice about paying for a hit, even on a cop."

And the idea of it gave her a little ping of excitement. "Find out if Kohli testified. Seems to me it got to court before the whole business was dismissed on techs. See just what his part was in the bust. Get it from Captain Roth, and if she hassles you over it, pass her to me. I'll be with the commander."

– =O=-***-=O=-

Commander Whitney stood at his window while Eve reported on the status of her investigation. He had his big hands folded together behind his back and stared out at the sky traffic.

One of the new Cloud Dusters winged by close enough for him to see the color of its young pilot's eyes and in direct violation of traffic codes.

Ballsy, Whitney thought absently, and stupid, he added as he heard the high, whining beep of the air patrol.

Busted, he thought. It should always be so easy to uphold the law.

When Eve fell silent behind him, Whitney turned. His face was dark and wide, his hair a close-cut military crop that was showing hints of gray. A big man with cool and sober eyes, he'd spent the first half of his career on the streets. Though he was spending the second half riding a desk, he hadn't forgotten what it meant to strap on a weapon.

"Before I comment on your report, Lieutenant, I want to inform you that I've had communications from Captain Roth of the One twenty-eighth. She's put in a formal request to have the Kohli homicide transferred to her squad."

"Yes, sir. She indicated she would do so."

"And your opinion of that request?"

"It's understandable. And it's emotional."

"Agreed." He waited a moment, inclined his head. "You don't ask if I intend to grant Captain Roth's request."

"There's no tactical reason to do so, and if you'd decided to put the investigation in Captain Roth's hands, you'd have told me up front."

Whitney pursed his lips, then turned back to the window. "Correct on both counts. The investigation remains on you. The case is emotional, Lieutenant. For Captain Roth's squad and for every cop on the NYPSD. It's difficult when one of us goes down, even though each of us knows the risks. But the nature of this killing takes it to another level. The excessive violence doesn't smack of a professional hit."

"No. But I'm not discounting that angle. If Ricker's involved, whoever he hired may have been using or may have had instructions to make it messy. I don't know what kind of cop Kohli was yet, Commander. Whether he was foolish enough or cocky enough to put himself in a vulnerable position with one of Ricker's hammers. I have Peabody digging into his record and case load. I need to know who he was close to, the names of his weasels, and how involved he was in the Ricker investigation and trial."

"It's not the first time Ricker's suspected of arranging a cop killing. But he's generally more subtle."

"There was something personal in this, Commander. Whether for the badge or for Kohli, I don't know. But it was very personal. Roarke owned the club," she added.

"Yes, so I've heard." He turned back, skimmed his gaze over her face, and walked to his desk. "Personal all around, Lieutenant?"

"It will be easier and quicker to obtain data on the club and on its staff and clientele. The manager's already come in voluntarily for interview. The fact that Kohli concealed his attachment to the NYPSD makes me wonder if he was on the job-on his own. He deliberately misrepresented himself and went so far as to arrange a cover. There's no indication he was working in soft clothes for the department, so it would have been unofficial."

"I have no knowledge of any investigation, official or otherwise, that required Detective Kohli to go under in Purgatory. But I will pursue that matter with Captain Roth." He held up a hand before Eve could object. "It'll be smoother if that particular inquiry comes from this office rather than from you, Dallas. Let's keep it smooth."

"Yes, sir." But it grated. "I want a warrant to open Kohli's financials. They're jointly held with his widow. At this time, I prefer not to request permission from Mrs. Kohli."

"Or alert her before they're open," he finished. He spread his hands on the desk. "You think he was taking?"

"I'd like to eliminate that angle, sir."

"Do it," he ordered. "And do it quietly. I'll get your warrant. You get me a cop killer."

– =O=-***-=O=-

Eve spent the rest of the day poring over Kohli's record, familiarizing herself with his case load, trying to get a handle on the man. The cop.

What she saw was an average officer who'd performed steadily, if slightly under his potential. He'd rarely missed a shift and just as rarely put in any overtime.

He'd never used his weapon for maximum force and therefore had never undergone extensive Testing. Still, he'd closed or been in on the closing of a good number of cases, and his reports on those closed and those open were efficient, carefully written, and thorough.

This was a man, Eve thought, who followed the book, did the job, then went home at night and put his day away.

How? she wondered. How the hell did anyone manage that?

His military record was similar. No trouble, no glow. He enlisted at the age of twenty-two, served six steady years, the last two in the military police.

Every t was crossed, every i dotted. It was, to her mind, a perfectly ordinary life. Almost too perfect.

The call to Nester Vine from Purgatory got her as far as his harassed-looking wife, who informed Eve that Vine had come home before the end of his shift the night before, dog-sick. She herself had just gotten in from the hospital where she'd taken her husband at three that morning for what turned out to be appendicitis.

As alibis went, it was a beaut. The only tip she pried out of Mrs. Vine was that she should get in touch with some stripper named Nancie, who'd apparently stuck around after Kohli had urged Vine to go home.

Still, she contacted the hospital and verified one Nester Vine had indeed had his appendix removed, in emergency, early that morning.

Scratch Nester, she thought, and put the stripper on her talk-to list.

Calls to Lieutenant Mills and Detective Martinez went unreturned. In the field and unavailable was the response. She left one last message for each, gathered the files, and prepared to go home.

She'd take a hard look at Kohli's financials that evening.

She caught Peabody in her cubicle in the bullpen dealing with the follow-up paperwork.

"Leave the rest of that until tomorrow. Go home."

"Yeah?" Peabody 's face lit up as she glanced at her wrist unit. "Almost on time, too. I've got an eight o'clock dinner with Charles. Now I'll have just enough time to go snazz myself up."

When Eve's response was a grunt, Peabody grinned. "You know the problem with juggling two guys?"

"Do you consider McNab a guy?"

"On a good day, he's a nice contrast to Charles. Anyway, you know the problem with seeing both of them?"

"No, Peabody, what's the problem with seeing both of them?"

"There isn't one."

With a hoot of laughter, Peabody grabbed her bag and shot out of her cubicle. "See you tomorrow."

Eve shook her head. One guy, she decided, was plenty problem enough for her taste. And if she got the hell out of Central, she might even beat him home for a change.

– =O=-***-=O=-

In a kind of test, she tried to click her mind off her case files. Traffic was ugly enough to keep her mind occupied, and the current blast of the billboards were hyping everything from spring fashions to the latest hot sports car.

When she caught a familiar face burst across one of the animated screens, she nearly side-swiped a glide-cart.

Mavis Freestone, her hair a riot of flame-colored spikes, whirled over the street at Thirty-fourth. She jiggled, spun, in a few sassy and amusingly placed scraps of electric blue. With each revolution, her hair changed from red to gold to blinding green.

It was, Eve thought with a foolish grin on her face, just like her.

"Jesus, Mavis. Would you just look at that? What a kick in the ass."

A long way. Her oldest friend had come a long way from the street grifter Eve had once busted, to performance artist in third-rate clubs, and now to bona fide musical star.

Musical, Eve thought, in the broadest sense of the word.

She reached for her car-link, intending to call Mavis and tell her what she was looking at, when her personal palm-link beeped.

"Yeah." She couldn't take her eyes off the billboard, even when several impatient drivers honked rudely. " Dallas."

"Hey, Dallas."

"Webster." Instantly, Eve's shoulders tensed. She might have known Don Webster on a personal level, but no cop liked receiving a transmission from Internal Affairs. "Why are you calling on my personal 'link? IAB's required to use official channels."

"I was hoping to talk to you. Got a few minutes?"

"You are talking to me."

"Face-to-face."

"Why?"

"Come on, Dallas. Ten minutes."

"I'm on my way home. Tag me tomorrow."

"Ten minutes," he repeated. "I'll meet you at the park right across from your place."

"Is this Internal Affairs business?"

"Let's talk." He gave her a winning smile that only increased her level of suspicion. "I'll meet you there. I'm right behind you."

She narrowed her eyes, checked her rearview, and saw he meant it literally. Saying nothing, she broke transmission.

She didn't stop across from the gates of her home but drove another block and a half, on principle-then made certain she found the only convenient parking spot before she pulled in.

It didn't surprise her when Webster simply double-parked and, ignoring the snooty glares from an elegant couple and their three equally stylish Afghan hounds, flipped on his On Duty light and joined her on the curb.

His smile had always been a handy weapon, and he used it now, keeping his light blue eyes friendly. His face was thin, sharp-angled, and would probably be termed scholarly as he aged. His dark brown hair waved a little and was cut to flatter.

"You've come up in the world, Dallas. This is some neighborhood."

"Yeah, we have monthly block parties and get crazy. What do you want, Webster?"

"How's it going?" He said it casually and started strolling toward the lush green and the trees still tender with spring.

Sucking in temper, she jammed her hands in her pockets and matched her steps with his. "It's going fine. How about you?"

"Can't complain. Nice evening. You gotta love spring in New York."

"And how about those Yankees? Now, that should conclude our period of small talk. What do you want?"

"You never were much on chat." He remembered very well the one and only time he'd managed to get her into bed; they hadn't done any talking. "Why don't we find a bench? Like I said, it's a nice evening."

"I don't want to find a bench. I don't want a soy dog, and I don't want to talk about the weather. I want to go home. So if you don't have anything interesting to say, that's what I'm going to do."

She turned, took three steps.

"You pulled the Kohli homicide."

"That's right." She turned back, and her inner alarm system flashed to red light. "What does that have to do with IAB?"

"I didn't say it had anything to do with IAB, other than the usual run we do when a cop goes down."

"The usual run doesn't mean a private meet, off duty, with the primary."

"We go back a ways." He lifted a hand. "Hell, all the way back to the Academy. It seemed friendlier this way."

She kept her eyes on his as she walked to him, stood toe to toe. "Don't insult me, Webster. Where does IAB come into my investigation?"

"Look, I've seen the prelim. This is a rough one. Rough on the department, his squad, his family."

Something started clicking in her brain. "Did you know Kohli?"

"Not really." Webster gave a thin smile, just a little bitter at the edges. "Most detectives don't care to socialize with Internal Affairs. Funny how we all frown over a dirty cop, but nobody wants to rub elbows with the ones digging them out."

"Are you saying Kohli was dirty?"

"I'm not saying that at all. I wouldn't be at liberty to discuss an internal investigation with you, if there was an internal investigation."

"Bullshit, Webster. Just bullshit. I have a dead cop. If he was mixed up in something off, I need to know."

"I can't discuss IAB business with you. It came to my attention that you've opened his financials."

She paused a minute as her temper threatened to spike. "I can't discuss a homicide investigation with you. And why would part of the procedure of that investigation come to the attention of the Rat Squad?"

"Now you're trying to piss me off." He kept his composure, gave a little shrug. "I thought I would give you a heads-up, unofficially and in a friendly manner, that the department, as a whole, will be better off if this investigation is closed quickly and quietly."

"Was Kohli in bed with Ricker?"

This time a muscle jumped in Webster's cheek, but his voice stayed smooth. "I don't know what you're talking about. Digging into Detective Kohli's financials is a dead end, Dallas, and will upset his family. The man was killed off duty."

"A man was beaten to death. A cop. A woman's been widowed. Two children lost their father. And it's supposed to matter less that it happened when he was off duty?"

"No." He had the grace or the wit to look uncomfortable. And then to look away. "That's just the way it went down. That's all there is to it."

"Don't tell me how to do my job, Webster. Don't ever tell me how to conduct a homicide investigation. You gave up cop work. I didn't."

" Dallas." He caught up with her before she reached the curb again. He gripped her arm and braced himself for the storm when she whirled on him.

Instead, she met his eyes, her own cold, flat, empty. "Move your hand. Now."

He complied, slipping his into his pocket. "I'm just trying to tell you IAB wants this closed quiet."

"What makes you think I give one good fuck about what IAB wants? You have something to say to me regarding my investigation into the death of Detective Taj Kohli, you do it in an official capacity. Don't tail me again, Webster. Not ever."

She climbed into her car, waited for a break in the mild traffic, and swung into a U-turn.

He watched her cover the distance, then turn into the high gates of the world she lived in now. He took three deep breaths, and when that didn't work, kicked viciously at his own rear tire.

He hated what he'd done. And more, he hated knowing he'd never really gotten over her.