Brotherhood in Death

4

They wound their way out.

“You don’t want a look at his appointment book, his calendar?” Peabody asked.

“The place is thick with lawyers. We’re not getting a look at anything without a warrant. Once it’s murder, I’ll get one. Hanson has to run his angle from here—so send him the name of the driver and the former Realtor. We’ll talk to the list of women, his son and daughter,” she began, checking the time. “Later. This took longer than I planned.”

“We’re heading in? We’re not going to miss Trueheart?”

“We’re heading in.”

“Yay!”

“Hold the yay. Impressions, observations, conclusions,” Eve said as they rode down.

“The whole place is big on status, and that sort of thing usually comes from the top. I thought places like this—political think tanks, activists, and the like—would be lower key, even a little sweaty. I didn’t get any vibe from either of them, or Aiden, at least not this time around. MacDonald seemed genuinely worried. Book, not so much.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“I’d say Book doesn’t care as much about the senator, not personally. What? You don’t think that’s it?”

“Might be, part of it anyway. I figure Book thinks the senator’s off snuggled up with the young artist or some other sidepiece. That plays for him more than any kind of abduction.”

For sentiment as much as warmth Eve pulled on the snowflake hat as they crossed the lobby. “MacDonald had a strong point. Back when he was a judge, then a senator, he likely had a serious enemies list. He was a hard-liner on the bench and in Congress and kept himself in the spotlight pushing agendas. He still goes on those political talk shows and sort of raves about anything he disagrees with. Government spending’s high on the list and he goes off on a lot of social programs. During his last term he went hard after professional parenthood, had all these figures on what it would save the government to gut the law, and how his wife was honored to be a stay-at-home mother when their children came along, and never took a dime of government money for it.”

“Did anyone point out his wife was rolling in it, and I bet my ass and yours had a staff?”

“Yeah, that sort of thing, and the fact that the Professional Parent Act is about as popular as they get, is why his numbers tanked. The pundits figure he opted not to run because he couldn’t win.”

“The pundits.”

Peabody shrugged, all but buried her chin in the folds of her scarf. “Sometimes I watch when I’m crafting. McNab doesn’t mind because if they have someone like Senator Horseshit on there, or Congresswoman Vidali—you know about her?”

“I don’t, and don’t want to.”

“Well, she’s such a liar, and a hypocrite. I hate when people like that start in on how God wants them to whatever, like they have some secret handshake with God the rest of us don’t know about. It gets me pretty worked up. Then we have hot sex.”

Eve’s eye wanted to twitch, but she willed it away. “You and Vidali.”

Peabody snickered. “Oh yeah, we’re all over each other. But seriously, mostly I’d like to punch her. I’ll think: Man, I’d like to punch you right in your lying face. So I jump McNab instead. It works for us.”

Eve thought of the scarf she was wearing, and wondered how many times Peabody had jumped McNab during the making thereof. She decided never to think about it again. Ever.

She got in the car, shot into a skinny gap in traffic, and let horns blast in her wake.

“We’ll take ten after the ceremony, then it’s back in street clothes. I want to talk to the artist first.”

“In her twenties, right? That’s just icky—and I’m not an age bigot.”

“What do the pundits say?”

“Not much on screen. Maybe it’s an unspoken rule or something. But if you go on some political blogs and websites, there’s a lot of chatter about his diddling. Not just him, but this is about him, so . . . I haven’t read anything about the artist. Yet.”

“Why don’t you dig into that area? The diddling area. Maybe there’s chatter about somebody not on my list, or smoke about bitter breakups. You dig up anything, you copy me and Hanson.”

“On it, over it, and through it. In fact . . .” Peabody pulled out her PPC. “I’ll get started on it now.”

Eve drove the rest of the way in silence, broken only by the occasional angry mutter from her partner.

She took a quick scan when she turned into Homicide. Carmichael hustled in from the locker room, in full dress blues. Trueheart and his trainer, now partner, were either still sprucing up or already headed down for the induction. Both Santiago and Jenkinson sat at their desks, one on a ’link, the other on a comp.

Santiago obviously still had some time on the bet he’d lost to Carmichael, as he had the cowboy hat perched on his head. And Jenkinson had managed to find yet another eye-burning tie. This one had puke-green and piss-yellow stripes.

Saying nothing, she circled a finger in the air in a wind-it-up signal, then took five in her office to grab coffee and write up brief notes.

She made it to the locker room after Peabody and found her partner in her uniform pants, bra, undertank, and tears.

“What? What is it? Don’t do that.”

“My pants are loose.”

“Well, Christ, tighten your belt.”

At Eve’s impatient order, a fresh tear spilled. “They’re loose in the waist, and even a little baggy in the butt. I lost some weight. I actually lost some weight. I know how this uniform fit the last time I wore it. And now it’s just a little bit loose.”

“Okay, great, woo! Now pull it together.”

“I’ve really been trying, especially the last few weeks. I’ve been hitting the gym three times a week. I stopped weighing myself,” she said as Eve pulled out her own uniform. “Because the number just wouldn’t budge and it’s so damn discouraging. You don’t know what it’s like.”

Though undressing in front of anyone but Roarke made her uncomfortable, Eve started to strip. “Maybe I don’t, exactly. But I was skinny. I don’t mean thin or lean, I mean skinny. And weak. I had to work to build myself up some, to build some muscle, get strong. So I know what it’s like to look in the mirror and not really like what’s looking back.”

“I never thought of it like that.”

“You lose weight, tone up, you do it to get fit and strong, not to hit a number. Anybody with a brain knows that.”

“I do know that. I still want the number, but I know that. I’ve been working on my hand-to-hand, too.”

“Good.” Eve pulled on her own uniform pants, decided they fit the way they always did.

“But . . . does my ass look smaller?”

“Jesus, Peabody.”

“Come on, be a pal. Does it?”

Eve pulled on her uniform jacket, narrowed her eyes in a long, hard study. “I can barely see it.”

On a watery laugh, Peabody did a little shuffle dance. “Thanks. You’ve got to wear your medals.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Want me to help you pin them on? All that weight.”

“Bite me. And next time I’m getting dressed in my office.”

Smiling, Peabody buttoned her jacket. “I’m proud to wear the uniform today. I mean, I always was, but especially today.”

“Because your pants are loose.”

“Well, that, but mostly for Trueheart. I’m proud to wear it for Trueheart.”

Eve took out the box that held her medals and thought, Yes. For Trueheart.

—

She caught Baxter—who’d traded his usually snappy suit for dress blues—already seated in the front row.

“Cutting it close, LT.”

“I’ve got time. You need to switch with me, stand up there with Trueheart.”

Baxter got to his feet. “I appreciate the offer, sincerely. But he deserves his lieutenant. I’m going to sit here, front row center—saved you a spot, Peabody—and bask. His mom’s right over there, and his girl. You should say something to her. Them.”

“I will, after.”

She went around the back, through a river of blue, and spotted Commander Whitney standing aside in conversation with Chief Tibble.

She started toward Trueheart, who was looking young, a little pale, and daisy fresh, but Whitney signaled her over.

“Commander. Chief Tibble. It’s a good day.”

“It is.” Whitney scanned the lineup, a broad-shouldered man beside Tibble’s longer length.

“It’s good you could be here, Chief. It means a lot to the men and women being promoted.”

“And to me. Before we get to that, to acknowledging them, I’d like the status on Senator Mira.”

“Detective Peabody and I just got back from interviews at his institute. As far as we can ascertain no one there knew he was missing. He didn’t give the name of the individual he arranged to meet at the property in SoHo to his admin, and dismissed his driver on arrival there. I’ve reached out to Detective Hanson in Missing Persons, and he should be following up at the Institute by now. Peabody and I will begin questioning certain women the senator had relationships with over the past year. I have information he took them, regularly, to the Institute’s suite at the Palace Hotel.”

Tibble’s jaw tightened as he shook his head. “The media’s going to tear into that like lions on an antelope. Not our problem. No ransom demands as yet?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“I don’t have to tell you to dot all the i’s. This will hit the media soon, one way or the other. They’ll rip through him, but they’ll spotlight the department and the investigation.”

“Understood, sir.”

“For now, we’ll honor our officers. I’ve heard good things about your boy, Lieutenant.”

“My boy, sir?”

Tibble smiled, deepening the lines fanning out from his eyes. “Trueheart. You did well there.”

“Detective Baxter trained him. He did well.”

“I’ll make sure to tell him so. Excuse me.”

When Tibble moved off, Whitney turned to Eve, his dark, wide face sober. “It isn’t prudent or professional to tell a former senator’s wife to kiss your ass.”

“No, sir. I apologize for any difficulty my lapse caused you and the department.”

“My wife told her to shove it.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Though his tone remained quiet and serious, humor, bright and unmistakable, fired up in his eyes. “Anna served on a couple of charity committees with Mandy Mira. In general, my wife’s anger is shown in cold disdain.”

“I’m aware,” Eve said before she could stop herself, but Whitney only chuckled.

“However, Mandy Mira flipped the switch, and among other unkind suggestions, Anna told her to shove it. She won’t serve on any committee or function with the senator’s wife any longer. She was delighted when she overheard my conversation with Mandy Mira last night, and enjoyed talking to our own Mira about the incident when Charlotte contacted me about it. Officially, I can’t condone your behavior.”

“No, sir.”

“Consider yourself reprimanded.” His face settled back into commanding lines. “Now, let’s give some good cops their moment, and get back to work.”

—

Eve stood on the stage with other ranking officers and those being promoted. She stood at parade rest through the speeches—mercifully brief—from Tibble, from Whitney. A scan of the audience showed every single member of her division in attendance, and, though she wondered who the hell was manning the ship, it made her proud to know every one of them—detectives, uniforms—took the time to be there for Trueheart.

She picked out Feeney, McNab, Mira, who like Trueheart looked a little pale, and to her surprise, Morris. As each officer’s name was called he or she stepped up to Whitney for the presentation, a few personal words from the commander, the photo op.

She could pick out family members by their glistening eyes during the applause.

“Troy Trueheart, Detective, third grade.”

Applause broke out hard and fast, and she managed to keep her face sober—even through the whistles and foot stomping from her division. She watched him cross the stage, a little flushed rather than pale now, and accept his gold shield.

“Lieutenant Dallas saw your potential,” Whitney said quietly to Trueheart. “Detective Baxter nurtured it. But it’s what you are that’s earned this shield. Congratulations, Detective.”

“Thank you, sir. Thank you, Commander. I won’t disappoint them, or you.”

He held his new shield up for the photo op, and did the right thing to her mind by looking straight at Baxter before he shifted his gaze to his mother and his sweetheart.

Then he turned to take his place at the back of the stage and sent Eve a grin that was Christmas morning, the Fourth of July, and New Year’s Eve all in one.

At the end, the newly promoted officers filed off the stage to more applause, and Eve wondered if the echoes of it would help offset some of the crap they’d have thrown at them daily on the job.

She went back, intending to work her way around, spend five or ten minutes to speak to whoever she had to speak to, then duck out, change, and get back on the street.

But Trueheart waited for her.

“Lieutenant.”

“Let’s see it.” She held out a hand, wiggled her fingers so he gave her his shield. “Nice. Keep it shiny, Detective Trueheart.” She gave it back to him.

“Yes, sir, I will. I just wanted to thank you. I wouldn’t be here, I wouldn’t have this if it wasn’t for you.”

“You got yourself here, with some good training from Baxter.”

“Sir, I hate starting my first day as detective correcting my LT, but I might still be walking the beat in Sidewalk City if you hadn’t taken a chance on me. And if you hadn’t put me with Baxter. Seeing I could do it, well, that’s why you’re the LT.”

“You’ve got a point. Congratulations, Detective.” She held out a hand.

He took it, swallowed hard. “I know you don’t really like this, but . . .” He pulled her in, wrapped his arms around her in a fierce hug.

“Hey. Okay.” She gave his back a pat, considering the moment, and nudged him away with her other hand, considering dignity.

“I wanted to get that done back here, before we were out there with a lot of people. Where you really wouldn’t like it.”

“That’s good thinking. Go see your mother.”

“Yes, sir!”

When she went out, Trueheart was wrapped around his mother with his girl—What was her name?—beaming at them and most of the division surrounding them.

She cut away to grab a minute with Mira.

“How’s Mr. Mira doing?”

“He insisted I come, and our daughter’s with him, so . . . He’s fine, really. He actually planned to go to the university today, but I put my foot down. He needs another day.”

“You didn’t get much sleep.”

“No, no, I didn’t. I have a lot of people I care about who put their lives on the line every day. It’s part of working with the police. I’ve lost some, and seen others injured. You live with it, cope with it. But Dennis . . . he lives a quiet life, and I wasn’t prepared to have him hurt like this.”

She stopped, drew a breath. “Well. I spoke with the governor.”

“Seriously?”

“Mandy’s not the only one with connections,” Mira said, and now her voice was brisk and cool. “He understands the situation and circumstances, and since he knows her . . . suffice it to say there’ll be no blowback from that quarter.”

“Okay.”

“I also spoke with Mandy.”

“You keep busy.”

“We detest each other, but I know how to read her, and how to push buttons. She hasn’t heard from him, there’s been no contact from whoever took him. She’s more angry than worried. If it wasn’t for Dennis I’d advise you to toss this case aside, but—”

“Look, I’m going to keep working this, but Hanson’s in a position to get warrants so he’s likely to get deeper than I can. But we’re on it, and I’ll be in touch. I’ve got to say something to Trueheart’s mother, then Peabody and I are going to have a talk with his current sidepiece.”

Mira laid a hand on Eve’s arm. “He won’t thank you for that, even if information you gather helps save his life.”

“Good thing I’m not in it for the thanks.”

She walked up to Trueheart’s mother, had to resign herself to another hug, this one a little on the weepy side.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Troy’s wanted this since he was a boy, and you helped him reach that dream. Last night I asked him what he wanted now, now that he’d made detective. He told me he wanted to be as good a cop as you are.”

“Mrs. Trueheart—”

“Pauline, please, it’s Pauline. I’m glad you set the bar high. I don’t want him to settle for less. I want you to know he’ll be proud every day when he picks up his shield, and I’ll be proud of him.”

Eve wanted escape, wanted the work, but found herself speaking. “He’s smart, and he’s observant, and has a way of working through a problem thoughtfully. His looks don’t hurt. He looks handsome and homespun,” Eve explained. “And some people mistake that for him being a soft touch, easy to dupe. He’s not. And he’s got a shiny code of honor you should be proud of because I figure you’re the one who put it in him.”

“Thank you for that, thank you very much for that.” Her voice broke, her eyes welling up. “Sorry. Emotional day.” She gave Eve’s hand a squeeze, then hurried away.

“That was really good stuff to say to her.” Peabody stepped up beside her.

“She started crying again.”

“It’s a mom thing.”

“Let’s get the hell out of here and go do the cop thing.”

“There’s cake.”

“Your pants are loose, Peabody.”

“Damn it.” As she rushed after Eve, Peabody glanced back at the refreshment table. “Having loose pants means I could eat a little cake.”

“Having loose pants means you can get out of them quicker so we can get back in the field.”

“Somebody said it was buttercream frosting.” But with a heavy sigh, Peabody got in the elevator.

—

Back in her street clothes, Eve took a few minutes in her office to connect with Hanson. Still no communication from Senator Mira, or his probable abductor. Hanson and his partner would interview Vinnie, the driver, and had already spoken to Silas Greenbaum. They’d work their way through the Mira Institute while Eve and Peabody took on the list of women.

By the time she came out Jenkinson and his tie were back at his desk, Santiago at his, and some of the uniforms had trickled in.

“Is anyone actually working today?”

“We’re on it, Dallas.” Knowing her sharp eye, Jenkinson hastily brushed cake crumbs from his shirt. “It was a good thing.”

“Yeah, it was a good thing. You know what else is good? Catching murdering bastards.”

“I like that even better than buttercream frosting,” Santiago said, earning a glare from Peabody.

“You guys are just mean.”

“Then catch me some murdering bastards,” Eve advised. “Peabody, with me.”

“You on a hot one, Dallas?”

She glanced back at Jenkinson as she strode toward the door. “I’ll let you know when I know. Don’t even think about whining over buttercream frosting,” Eve warned, and Peabody settled into a pout as she got on the elevator.

“We’ll hit the baby skirt at the gallery where she works. We’re going by the crime scene first. I want another look around, and you haven’t seen it firsthand.”

“Mira said Mr. Mira was okay, but she looked really stressed. She hardly ever looks stressed.”

“She’ll deal.”

Eve considered herself lucky that the elevator only stopped five times on the descent, and no more than a dozen people filed on, filed off.

“We’ll make a circuit with the known sidepieces,” Eve said as they got in the car. “Say he’s still seeing the artist, but she’s starting to make noises. Oh, Senator Granddaddy—”

“Eeww.”

“Yeah, well. She’s all, If you get a divorce we could be together all the time. And he’s, Now, now, Sweet Baby Sidepiece—”

“Ick, ick, mega ick!”

“Can’t ditch my marriage: appearances, finances, blah blah. How about some ice cream!”

“This is really turning my stomach, so I don’t even want any buttercream frosting. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Or she’s got a former, more age-appropriate but poor boyfriend—maybe even current—and they figure they’ll pound and intimidate a nice fat chunk of the change out of him. Maybe start off the blackmail with a black eye. Then Mr. Mira walks in, and panic changes their plans.”

“I like it.”

“Or, the next up the line gets steamed, stews, and thinks how he’s dumped her more mature ass for this baby slut. Now he must pay. Also requires a partner.”

“To pose as the Realtor to get him in the house.”

“Then it’s, Surprise, you horny bastard, we’re going to tune you up.” She paused at a light. “I’ve got problems with all those scenarios, but they’re a launch point.”

She played with all the problems as she drove, then shot out another launch point. “MacDonald’s alibied tight. Hanson will follow up, but her alibi’s going to hold. So maybe if she’s been a sidepiece, or there’s another issue, she hires somebody to deal with him. We’ll look at her finances, but we’re not looking at a pro. Still, a lawyer’s bound to know some shady types, especially a political lawyer.”

She studied the neighborhood as she approached the brownstone. “Quiet, established, upper end. The canvass got nothing, but then most people would be at work, or occupied. Who stares out the window checking for activity on the street or around their neighbors on a crappy day? That’s just luck, and it bothers me. It’s just luck getting an injured man out of the house, into a vehicle without anybody seeing anything.”

“Lucky that it was crappy, gloomy daylight and not broad.”

“Yeah, nobody can plan that.”

Eve got out, took another minute to study the house, its position.

“It’s really beautiful,” Peabody commented. “Old, but in a dignified, ageless sort of way. I can see why Mr. Mira wants to keep it.”

“It’s more what’s inside—I don’t mean the stuff. It’s what he remembers, what he felt, the pictures in his head. And he promised, that’s the big one. If Edward Mira knew him at all, he’d know Mr. Mira wasn’t about to break his promise.”

“Wait! What if this is all a ploy to get him to do that?” Running with it, Peabody loosened her scarf as they walked through the little gate. “He stages it all, and it’s Mr. Mira who’ll be contacted after he’s worried half to death.”

“Sign off on the sale of the house or your cousin gets it? Why would anyone buy that?”

“You said the senator needed money, right? So the fake kidnapper claims he owes him a bundle. Now sell the house so I get paid or I kill him until he’s dead.”

Eve frowned, worked it around. “That’s actually a launching point, no shakier than . . . Seal’s compromised.”

She held up a hand to stop Peabody, studied the police seal she’d affixed herself. “Somebody got through it and went in. Recorders on.”

Without another word they both drew their weapons.

Eve stepped to the door, glanced at Peabody, nodded.

They went through, high and low, right and left.

Eve straightened, kept her weapon at the ready as she looked up.

Edward Mira hung from the crystal chandelier. His face was blackened from bruising, his throat gouged and smeared with dried blood. And he was naked but for a computer-generated sign that covered his torso.

JUSTICE IS SERVED

“Well, fuck.”

“I guess it wasn’t a ploy.”

“If it was, it sure went wrong. Let’s clear the house, Peabody, and call this in.”