Chapter 3

EVE PUSHED AND DODGED HER WAY THROUGH Central at change of shift. Cops going off tour, coming on, or those like her who’d caught something and were trying to get in or out to follow up.

She stopped by Vending to study her choices, decided they all sucked, and settled for something laughingly billed as a blueberry Danish.

She plugged in her code, her selection. And got nothing but a grinding hum and blinking lights.

“Come on, bitch.” She repeated the process, and this time received a few weak beeps. “Damn it, I knew it wouldn’t last.”

Her poor history with machines haunted her, and now she wanted that damn anemic-looking excuse for a breakfast pastry on a matter of principle.

She gave the machine a solid kick.

Vandalism or physical force on this machine or any others on the premises can result in termination of Vending privileges for a period of thirty to ninety days. Please insert coin, credit or authorized code, and your selection.

“That’s what I did you useless piece of junk.” She reared back to kick it again.

“Hey, Dallas.” Baxter, the slickest dresser of her detectives strolled up. “Problem?”

“This miserable pile of junk won’t give up that blob of crap disguised as a Danish.”

“Allow me.” Whistling between his teeth, Baxter keyed in his own code, selected the Danish.

It slid smoothly into the slot. Eve eyed it while the machine cheerfully listed its mega-syllabic ingredients and dubious nutritional value.

“There you go, LT.” Baxter pulled it out, offered it. “My treat.”

“How do they know it’s me? Why do they care?”

“Maybe it’s body chemistry, something to do with energy.”

“That sounds like bullshit.”

“Well, you got the Danish.”

“Yeah. Thanks for that.”

“So, Trueheart and I closed the double murder. Ex-girlfriend who didn’t want to be the ex.”

She toggled back into her mental files. “The bludgeoning in Chelsea.”

“Yeah,” he continued as they walked. “Beat them both to shit and back again with a tire iron. I figured the didn’t-want-to-be-ex hired somebody or sexed somebody into doing it. That kind of damage? You don’t expect a woman.”

“Why?”

“Well, you know, LT. Women typically go for poison, or something less gruesome. Especially seeing as this one’s barely five feet tall and a hundred soaking wet. Just didn’t figure she had the chops or the muscle. Trueheart broke her down.”

“Trueheart.” Eve thought of the clean-cut, kindhearted uniform she’d given to Baxter to train.

“He stuck with the ‘hell hath no fury’ bit from the jump. Wouldn’t let go of it. And he played her, Dallas, played her in Interview like a shortstop plays an infield grounder.”

She heard the pride in his voice, still some big brother in it, but that’s what worked.

“It was beautiful, I gotta say. He’s all sympathy and understanding, talking about having his heart broken.” With a grin, Baxter thumped a hand on his heart. “Getting the whole simpatico deal going, getting her worked up about how he done her wrong and all that shit.”

“Good angle,” Eve praised.

“Oh yeah, and he got better. He pulls out how he bet it hurt her, deeply, to see her ex’s new lady wearing that sexy leopard print nightie—he even said nightie. And the stupid bitch can’t resist saying how it was a tiger print, and that flat-chested slut didn’t have the tits to fill it out.

“The dead woman just bought the thing—tiger print, which my boy knew—that afternoon, so the ex couldn’t have seen her in it, unless she was in that bedroom. The boy took her apart from there. Got a full confession. How she’d climbed up the fire escape—the dead ex always left the bedroom window open a little, fresh air fiend. Bashed him first, then went to town on the new skirt, went back whaled some more on the ex. Then went down to the basement laundry room, he hadn’t changed his codes on that. Washed her damn clothes, cleaned up, walked out. Tossed the tire iron in the river.”

“That’s good work. Does the lab have the clothes?”

“Yeah. I’m leaving it to the boy to follow up there. We both figured her for involvement, but he’s the one who saw her with the tire iron, swinging for the fences.”

He paused a moment, and knowing there was more, Eve waited.

“He’s lost his green, Dallas. Well, he’s one of those who’ll probably always be fresh, but you know what I mean. He’s earned a shot at detective.”

She’d promised to consider it, and though Baxter’s second pass was a little ahead of schedule, she couldn’t fault his logic. “The first of the year. If he wants it, he can take the exam then. That’ll give him time to get a little more experience under his belt and study up. Let him know. You’ve done good with him, Baxter.”

“He’s gold, boss. I figured him mostly for ballast when you tossed him my way, but he’s gold. Appreciate it.”

“Prime him,” she warned. “The exam’s not for pussies.”

“He’s a sweetheart, but he ain’t no pussy.”

When they walked into the bullpen, things were already hopping. She gave Peabody the come-ahead and kept moving into her office where Eve headed straight for the AutoChef and coffee.

“Morris confirms COD is the broken neck. No apparent defensive wounds. The bruises she has could be—most likely are—the result of the snatch, the backhand. Manual neck snap.”

“Big ouch.”

“I don’t think she felt much. He stunned her first—extra careful maybe—light stun, on the shoulder blade.”

“Like an ambush, from behind.”

“Yeah, and I’m betting the fibers on her pants, and the ones Morris took out of the heel of her right hand are from the interior of the vehicle used to transport her. I’m going to set up the board and book. What have you got?”

“McNab’s already in and started on the ’link. EDD’s waiting for the go-ahead for the rest of the electronics. Carmichael and Santiago are on tap for the search, and Uniform Carmichael’s on the canvass. I put an alert out for the wedding ring and the wrist unit, and went ahead and contacted the husband about the earrings so we could alert all of it. She had on these gold heart-shaped studs the kids gave her last Mother’s Day. I really hope we get them back. Something like that... Anyway, we could get lucky there if the killer decides to pawn or sell.”

“They’re not pros, so we could get lucky.”

“I started a run on the financials—vic and spouse. They both have life insurance—and plenty—but they’re solid money-wise. He makes considerably more than she did, but she didn’t do half bad. They’ve got investments, the low-risk, long-term growth type, and already have college funds started for the kids.”

She took out her notebook, swiped through just to refresh. “They own the condo, and have a mortgage going on a house on Long Island, in Oyster Bay. One vehicle—family-style cargo deal, late model, but not flashy. Some art and jewelry. Dickenson and Grimes started their firm eleven years ago, took on the other partners along the way. They have a good rep. The vic worked for Brewer and company for about the same amount of time, moving up, time off for each of the kids with standard maternity leave. The nanny’s been with them since the first kid came along. I have her data.”

“Okay, we’ll talk to her, to the vic’s work people, to the law partners.”

“Crossing, there are some clients popping on each, and I’ve got a couple so far who’ve used or are using the wit’s firm.”

“Run it through, then we’ll work the matches.” She glanced down when her unit signaled an incoming. “There’s the warrant.” She ordered it to print, read the attachment. “Yung says the family’s heading over to her place. Give Carmichael the warrant, and get them going. Give EDD the nod on the electronics. Be ready to— Sir.”

She straightened her shoulders when Commander Whitney filled her doorway. She’d expected contact, and quickly, but wished he’d called her up to his office, given her time to prepare.

“I’ve been informed Judge Yung’s sister-in-law has been murdered.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve just come in from the field. I haven’t written up my initial report, and am waiting for some lab results.”

“Run it through for me.”

“Peabody, get things started. Commander,” she began, then gave him an oral report.

He was a big man in her small office, his dark face grim as he listened, as he walked over to stare out of her skinny window at the gloomy morning.

“You’re not leaning toward the husband?”

“I’m leaning away from the husband,” Eve told him. “But we’ll take him through the process. Both he and the judge have been cooperative. I’ve got Carmichael and Santiago heading over to the vic’s residence to do a search, and EDD’s picking up the electronics. McNab’s already processing the husband’s ’link. The upshot is she was snatched by person or persons unknown for reasons as yet undetermined. But it wasn’t random, it wasn’t a mugging, and there’s no evidence at this early stage to indicate Judge Yung is connected to that reason. I’m going to take a harder look at the wit, and his partners, and find out what the vic was working on, or has worked on, her current clients.”

He nodded, turned back to her. “The wife of a prominent judge’s brother, the media will stir that. We’ll have the liaison issue a statement, save you time.”

Sing “Hallelujah.” “Thank you, sir.”

“I’m acquainted with Yung, as most of us are. You should know she and her husband and Chief Tibble and his wife are friendly.”

“Understood.”

“Keep me informed.”

“Yes, sir.” The minute he left, she opened the murder book, then set up her board, centering Marta Dickenson’s photo. She ran through the time line again, scanned the interview with the wits, then the spouse. For a moment, she studied the printouts she made from her crime scene record.

Blood drops on the tarp, she mused. Sloppy cleanup. Quick grab—timed well. Killing method, quick and brutal. Trained, she thought again, but not professional.

So who’d hired, or had on their payroll, a couple of thugs with training—spine-crackers, security, bouncers—who weren’t above breaking the neck of a defenseless woman?

Start with why, she mused, and gathered her things.

Her ’link signaled again. “Dallas?”

“Lieutenant.” Harpo with her spiky red hair popped on screen. “Figured to give you a quick heads-up on those fibers.”

“You ID’d them.”

“Give me a challenge next time. Interior carpet on the Maxima Cargo, Mini Zip, and 4X Land Cruiser. Color’s Blue Steel, and comes standard with Indigo exterior, but you can order it custom. GM intro’d the color last year, so the model is either a ’59 or ’60. But the fibers were coated with the factory sealant so it hasn’t seen much wear or use.”

“That’s good, quick work, Harpo.”

“Like I said, no challenge. The ones from the morgue match, blood trace on them. I checked with the blood boys, so I can tell you the blood on the tarp and the blood on the fiber both came from your vic.”

“Really good, quick work.”

“A lot of us have testified before Judge Yung. So... I’ll send along the reports.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Harpo.”

“We do what we do,” she said. “I do it best.”

At the moment, Eve couldn’t argue.

“Peabody,” she said as she swung through the bullpen.

Peabody snagged her coat and jogged to catch up. “McNab’s finished with the ’link. Everything corroborates Dickenson’s statement. Vic called, said she’d be working late—chatting about food, kids, domestic stuff. She contacted him again at just after ten to tell him she was heading home. He pushed her to call their car service, but she brushed that off, just as he said. She also said she was bringing some work home, but she was going to deal with it in the morning—that she’d arranged to work at home until noon.”

“He forgot to tell us that.”

“McNab’s sending up a copy of all transmissions. He says you can clearly see the vic pulling on her coat, a scarf, even a hat and gloves while she talked with the husband. She had him on her desk ’link. McNab says she had the briefcase Yung described, and a red handbag also with shoulder strap. Wedding ring, wrist unit, and the heart stud earrings.”

“Good.” McNab might have been Peabody’s main man, but that didn’t affect his work.

“They talked for just over three minutes, and she told him to pour her a big glass of wine, how maybe he’d get lucky. He joked back, no, maybe she’d get lucky. It makes it sadder. It just does.”

“Sad isn’t part of the equation right now,” Eve said as they walked out of the elevator and into the garage. “The transmission backs up the husband’s story, and also gives a picture of their relationship. Add that, the initial interview, his demeanor, their financials, and he’s looking clear. Unless we find he had a sidepiece, he’s got no clear motive for having her done.”

She got behind the wheel. “Harpo came through. We’re going to need to run Maxima Cargos, Mini Zips and 4X Land Cruisers, with Blue Steel interior carpet. Either ’59 or ’60.”

“That’s a good break.”

“It’s a break anyway. The blood on the tarp and some trace on the fibers are the vic’s. So we’ve confirmed she was grabbed, tossed in a vehicle, transported, taken inside, killed. Coat, hat, gloves, scarf, jewelry taken, dumped outside.”

“I’ll start a run, see if any of the names we’ve got has a vehicle that matches.”

“Let’s find out what work she was bringing home, and see if we can figure out why.”

Knowing her job, Peabody pulled out her PPC as Eve zipped out of the garage. First things, first.

“I’ve got Sylvester Gibbons as her immediate supervisor. If I’m figuring this right, she works in a division that does independent audits. Businesses, corporations, trust funds.”

“Audits. That’s when they’re looking for something hinky.”

“I guess. Or just making sure everything’s right.”

“Something hinky,” Eve repeated. “One way to screw up an audit or at least delay it—kill the auditor.”

“That’s pretty harsh and extreme. And if numbers are hinky, it’s going to come out anyway, right?”

“Maybe they need time to fix it. You snatch the auditor, find out what she knows, what she’s put on record, who she’s talked to. Get the information, kill her, set it up as a mugging. Now you’ve got some time to fix the numbers, or if you’ve been dipping into the till, put the money back. If it’d gone smooth, everybody thinks Marta had some really bad luck. They don’t start poking around in her work straight off. We could be ahead of them. Contact Judge Yung.”

“Now?”

“Preemptive strike. No money guy’s going to want to hand over a client’s documents to the cops. We need a warrant, one that covers everything the vic’s worked on in the past month. Yung will clear the way for that, save us time.”

“It’s like having a judge on tap. I didn’t mean that in the bribery, judge-in-the-pocket kind of way.”

“Uh-huh. Don’t give her any more information than necessary. We want to be thorough, cover all bases. You know the drill.”

“I’ve never drilled a judge before. And that still comes off shady. Or uncomfortably sexual.”

“Just get the warrant, Peabody.”

Eve thought about something else she had on tap. She happened to be married to a numbers geek. Money was his language, and he was seriously fluent.

She hunted for parking, and considered it her lucky day when she found a spot curbside only a block and a half from the victim’s office building.

“The judge says she’ll make the warrant happen,” Peabody reported, “but it may take a little time. Sensitive material, privacy issues. If we can show reasonable evidence the vic was killed due to her work, it’ll slide right through.”

“We might show evidence if we looked at the work.” But she’d figured as much. At least the wheels were already grinding.

The sky began to spit an ugly, icy sleet, causing other pedestrians to quicken their pace. In seconds, an enterprising street vendor hauled out a cart, popped it open to reveal a supply of umbrellas for about triple their usual rate.

In seconds more, he was mobbed.

“I wouldn’t mind one of those,” Peabody murmured.

“Toughen up.”

“Why doesn’t it just snow? At least snow’s pretty.”

“Until it’s in grimy black mounds against the curb.” Shoving her hands in her pockets for warmth, Eve quick-stepped the last half block. She shoved through the lobby doors, shook her head like a dog, and shot out little drops of cold.

She badged the man at the security podium. “Brewer, Kyle, and Martini.”

“Fifth floor. Is this about Ms. Dickenson? I heard the media report before I came on.”

“Yeah, it’s about Ms. Dickenson.”

“It’s true then.” His lips tightened as he shook his head. “You gotta hope it’s a mistake, you know? She’s a nice woman, always says hi when she comes in.”

“You weren’t on last night?”

“Off at four-thirty. She logged out at ten-oh-eight. I checked the log when I came in, because of the report.”

“Did she work late routinely?”

“I wouldn’t say routinely, but sure, sometimes. All of them do. Tax season?” He waved a hand in a forget about it gesture. “They might as well live here.”

“Has anybody come in, asking about her?”

“Not to me. I mean she gets people, clients, and whatever who come in asking for her and the firm. They have to sign in.”

“Any problem showing us the log for the last week or so?”

“I don’t see why it’d be a problem.”

“How about making a copy for our files.”

Now he shifted, foot-to-foot. “I’d like to clear that one with my boss. If you’re going up, you could stop back on the way out. I think he’ll be okay with it, considering.”

“Good enough. Thanks.”

“She was a nice lady,” he said again. “Met her husband and kids, too. They came in to pick her up now and then. Nice family. It’s a damn shame, is what. A damn shame. First bank of elevators on the right. I’ll talk to my boss.”

“Thanks again. Check in with Uniform Carmichael,” she told Peabody. “See if he’s got anything.”

“If the security guy knows, the office knows,” Peabody pointed out.

“Yeah, kills the element of surprise.”

“And makes it just a little less awful.”

Not so much, Eve thought when the elevator doors opened. She heard someone weeping, the sound muffled behind a closed door. The two people—one man, one woman—behind the reception desk stood, holding each other.

No one sat in the dignified—and boring—cream and brown waiting area.

The woman eased away, made an obvious effort to compose herself. “I’m very sorry, all appointments are canceled for today. We’ve had a death in the family.”

“I’m aware.” Eve took out her badge.

“You’re here about Marta.”

“Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody. We’re investigating her death. We need to speak with Sylvester Gibbons.”

“Of course. Yes.” She pulled some tissues out of a holder. “Marcus?”

“I’ll get him, right away.” The man dashed off.

“Would you like to sit down? Or coffee? I mean would you like some coffee?”

“We’re good. How well did you know Ms. Dickenson?”

“Very well. I think very well.” She dabbed at her eyes. “We—we took an exercise class together, twice a week. And we talked every day, I mean every workday. I can’t believe this happened! She’s careful, and it’s a good area. She wouldn’t have fought or argued with a mugger.” Tears welled and overflowed again. “They didn’t have to hurt her.”

“Has anyone been in asking about her?”

“No.”

“Have there been any problems between her and someone in the office, someone in the firm?”

“No. I’d know, you hear everything on the desk. This is a good company. We get along.”

Nobody got along all the time, but Eve let it slide. “How about a client, any trouble, complaints?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“People don’t like being audited. Has anyone caused any trouble about that, about the work she did?”

“Legal handles that sort of thing. I don’t understand. She was mugged, so—”

“It’s routine,” Eve said. “We need to be thorough.”

“Of course. Of course. I’m sorry. I’m so upset.” She choked on the words as she dug out fresh tissues. “We got to be pretty good friends with the class we took.”

“Did she talk about her work with you, about the audits?”

“Marta wouldn’t gossip about an audit. It’s unprofessional. And if she’d gossiped, it probably would’ve been with me. You get, well, loose, when you’re sweating together. And sometimes we’d go have a drink after—a reward. We talked about our kids, and clothes, and that sort of thing. Men—husbands.” She smiled weakly. “Neither of us wanted to talk about work when we were out of the office.”

“Okay.”

“I—oh, Sly!” She said the syllable on a smothered wail, then dropped down in her chair, covered her face with her hands.

“Nat.” A stringy man with flyway blond hair and watery blue eyes stepped around the reception desk, patted the woman on the shoulder. “Why don’t you go home?”

“I want to stay, to help. We couldn’t reach everyone who has an appointment. I just need—a few minutes.” She rose, dashed off.

“It’s going to take longer than minutes.” He passed a weary hand over his face, turned to Eve and Peabody. “Lieutenant Dallas?”

“Mr. Gibbons?”

“Yes. Ah, we’re not ourselves this morning. Marta—” He shook his head. “We should go back to my office.” His movements ungainly, as if he couldn’t quite deal with the length of his limbs, he led the way through a cubical area—more tears, more watery eyes—and down a short hall where office doors stayed closed.

“Marta’s office...” He stopped, stared at the closed door. “Do you need to see?”

“We will, yes. I’d like to talk to you first. Is the door secured?”

“She would have locked it when she left, that’s policy. I unlocked it when I came in, after I heard... Just to see if there was anything... Honestly, I don’t know why. I locked it again.”

They passed a break area where a few people sat speaking in muted voices, and to the end of the corridor.

Gibbons’s office took a corner, as supervisors’ often did. It struck Eve as minimalist, efficient, and scarily organized. His desk held two comps, two touch screens, several folders neatly stacked, a forest of lethally sharpened pencils in several hard colors, and a triple picture frame holding snapshots of a plump, smiling woman, a grinning young boy, and a very ugly dog.

“Please sit down. I—coffee. I’ll get you coffee.”

“It’s all right. We’re fine.”

“It’s no trouble. I was getting coffee,” he said vaguely. “I was in the break room, trying to... comfort, I guess. We’re not a large department, and we’re part of a, well, tightly knit firm. Everyone here knows each other, has interacted, you could say. We—we—we have a company softball team, and we celebrate birthdays in the break room. Marta had a birthday last month. We had cake. Oh my God. It’s my fault. This is all my fault.”

“How is that?”

“I asked her to put in some overtime. I asked her to work late. We’ve been shorthanded this week, with two of our auditors at a convention. They were due back, but there was an accident—a car accident. One has a broken leg, and the other’s in a coma. Was, I mean. I just got word he came out of it, but they’ve put him under again for some reason. There’s no brain damage, but he has broken ribs and needs more tests and... I’m sorry. I’m sorry. That’s not why you’re here.”

“When did you ask Marta to work late?”

“Just yesterday. Yesterday morning when I talked to Jim, the one with the broken leg. They won’t be able to travel back. They’re in Vegas, at a convention. I told you that. Sorry. They won’t be able to come back to work for several days, at least, and we had audits pending. I asked Marta to pick up the slack. I worked until eight myself, but then I took the rest home. Marta was still here. She said thanks for dinner, Sly. I ordered us some food about six. For myself, Marta, and Lorraine.”

“Lorraine?”

“Lorraine Wilkie. She and Marta both worked late. Lorraine and I left at the same time, but I’d given Marta the bulk of the work. She’s the best we have. She’s the best. I didn’t know she’d stay so late. I should’ve told her to leave when I did. I should’ve gotten her into a cab. If I had, she’d be all right.”

“What was she working on?”

“Several things.”

He took out his pocket ’link when it signaled, glanced at the readout, hit ignore.

“I’m sorry, that can wait. Marta was finishing up an audit of her own, had just begun another. And I gave her three more—one assigned to Jim, and the others to Chaz. And I asked her to look over some work done by a trainee.”

“Would Marta have told anyone about these assignments—details, I mean—names?”

“No. That information would be very confidential.”

“We’re going to need to see her work. I’ll need you to give me access to her files.”

“I... I don’t understand.” He lifted his hands, palms up, like a man offering a plea. “I’d do anything to help. But I can’t give you confidential material. I don’t understand.”

“Mr. Gibbons, we have reason to believe Marta wasn’t the victim of a random mugging, but was abducted when she left the office, taken to another location where she was killed. Her briefcase was taken. That would have contained at least some of her work, some of her files.”

As his hands lowered, he simply stared. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. I don’t understand you.”

“We have reason to believe Marta Dickenson was a specific target, and that she may have been killed due to her work.”

He sat down heavily. “They said—on the report—it was a mugging.”

“And I hope they’ll keep saying that for the time being. I’m telling you it wasn’t, and I’m telling you to keep that confidential. Who knew she was working late last night?”

“I... I did; Lorraine; Josie, Marta’s assistant; Lorraine’s assistant. My admin...” Head slightly bowed, he pushed his hands repeatedly through his thin hair. “God. My God. Anyone might’ve known. It wasn’t a secret.”

“Cleaning crew, maintenance, security?”

“Yes, well, the crew came in to clean while we were working. And security requires logging in and out. I don’t understand,” he repeated.

“Just understand we need to see what she was working on.”

“I—I—I need to talk to Legal. If I could, I swear to you, I’d give you everything, anything. She was my friend. You think someone killed her because of an audit?”

“It’s a theory.”

“I don’t see how this can be.” He began to rub his fingers across his brow, back and forth, back and forth.

“Talk to your lawyer. Tell him a warrant’s in the works. We’ll get it. Judge Yung will see to it.”

“I hope she will, and quickly.” He pushed to his feet. “I think you must be wrong, but if there’s any chance—any—I want you to have what you need. She was my friend,” he repeated. “And I was responsible for her here, in this workplace. I don’t know how I can ever tell Denzel... It’s my fault, any way it happened. It’s my fault.”

“It’s not,” Eve said flatly, because she thought he needed it. “It’s the fault of the person who killed her.”