Judgment in Death

CHAPTER FIVE

Eve calculated she could spend the next three days interviewing strippers, table dancers, customers, and club crawlers, or she could zero in on Max Ricker.

It wasn't a tough choice, but both areas had to be covered.

She walked into the detectives' squad room, scanned faces. Some cops worked the 'links, others wrote reports or studied data. A team was taking a statement from a civilian who appeared to be more excited than distressed. The scent of bad coffee and aging disinfectant stung the air.

She knew these cops. Some were sharper than others, but all of them did the job. Pulling rank here had never been her style, and she thought she could get what she wanted without resorting to it now.

She waited until the civilian, looking flushed and pleased with himself, left the bullpen.

"Okay, listen up."

A dozen faces turned in her direction. She watched expressions shift. Every one of them knew the case in her hands. No, she thought when 'links were disengaged and screens ignored. She wouldn't have to pull rank.

"I've got over six hundred potential witnesses to either eliminate or interview in the matter of Detective Taj Kohli. I could use some help. Those of you who aren't on priority cases or who can see their way clear to put in a couple of extra hours over the next few days can see either me or Peabody."

Baxter was the first to get to his feet. He was an occasional pain in the ass, Eve thought, but Christ, he was dependable as sunrise.

"I got time. We all got time." He glanced around the room himself as if daring anyone to disagree.

"Good." Eve slipped her hands in her pockets. "To give you an update on the investigation…" And here she had to step carefully. "Detective Kohli was bludgeoned to death while moonlighting in a high-class strip club called Purgatory. The club was closed, and it appears Kohli knew his attacker. I'm looking for someone he knew well enough to be alone with, to turn his back on."

Someone, she thought, who was contacted by him or contacted him on his personal palm-link during his shift. That's why the killer removed it from the scene.

"At this point, it doesn't appear that Kohli was working on a sensitive case or pursuing information regarding one. But it's possible the killer was a weasel or outside informant. Robbery isn't a motive that holds. This was personal," she added, watching faces. "A personal attack on the badge. The One twenty-eight thinks the investigation belongs with them. I say it stays here."

"Damn right it stays here." A detective named Carmichael lifted her coffee mug, scowled into it.

"The media's leaving this alone so far," Eve continued. "It's not a hot story. A bartender doesn't boost ratings, and the fact that he was a cop doesn't make much of a ripple onscreen. He doesn't matter to them."

She waited, scanned faces. "But he matters here. Any of you who want in can let Peabody know how many witnesses you feel you can handle. She'll assign. Copy all statements and reports to me."

"Hey, Dallas, can I have the strippers?" Baxter teased. "Just the well-stacked ones?"

"Sure, Baxter. We all know the only way you're going to see a woman naked is if she's paid for it." There was a chorus of snorts and whoops. "I'll be in the field most of the day. Anyone pulls anything I need to know, tag me."

As she headed toward her office, Peabody hurried after her. "You're going in the field alone."

"I need you here, coordinating the witness assignments."

"Yeah, but-"

"Peabody, up until last year, I did most of my field work solo." As she shoved back her desk chair to sit, she caught the gleam of hurt in Peabody's eyes. Nearly rolled her own. "That doesn't mean you haven't aced the job, Peabody. Get a hold of yourself. I need you here right now, running this and scanning data. You're better at the tech stuff than I am."

That appeared to brighten Peabody again. "Yeah, I am. But I could hook up with you when I'm clear here."

"I'll let you know. Why don't you get started while everyone's in the mood to put in extra time?" In dismissal, Eve turned to her desk unit. "Let's get moving."

"Yes, sir."

Eve waited until Peabody left, then got up to close the door. Back at her desk she called up all known data on Max Ricker.

She didn't want any surprises.

She'd seen his picture before, but she studied it more carefully now. He had a powerful look, a strongly carved face with prominent planes that looked glass sharp. His mouth was hard, with the silver brush of a mustache doing nothing to soften it. His eyes were silver as well, opaque and unreadable.

The vanity Roarke had spoken of showed in the waving mane of dark hair tipped with silver wings, in the single diamond stud he wore in his right ear, and in the smooth polish of his white, white skin that showed neither line nor fold but looked as if it had been stretched taut as bleached silk over those ice-edged bones.

Subject Ricker, Max Edward. Height, six feet, one inch. Weight two hundred two pounds. Caucasian. DOB 3 February 2000. Born Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Parents Lean and Michelle Ricker, deceased. One sibling, deceased.

Educated University of Pennsylvania with degree in business.

No marriages or legal cohabitations. One son, Alex, DOB 26 June 2028. Mother listed as Morandi, Ellen Mary. Deceased.

Current residences include Hartford, Connecticut, Sarasota, Florida, Florence, Italy, London, England, Long Neck Estates on Yost Colony and Nile River Hotel on Vegas II.

Profession listed as entrepreneur with interests and holdings as follows…

Eve sat back now, closed her eyes, and listened to the rundown of Ricker's businesses. There had been another time she'd done a run on a man who had extensive and varied interests, who'd owned strings of companies and organizations. Who'd looked, as Ricker did, dangerous.

That run had changed her life.

She intended for this one to change Ricker's.

"Computer, list criminal record, all arrests and charges."

Working…

She sat up again when the data began to roll, and her eyebrows lifted. There were a number of charges over the years, beginning with petty larceny in 2016, continuing with gun running, illegals distribution, fraud, bribery, and two conspiracies to commit murder. None of it had stuck, he'd slipped and slithered through, but his sheet was long and varied.

"Not as clever as Roarke, are you?" she murmured. "He never got caught. There's the arrogance. You don't mind getting caught, not really." She studied his face again. "Because it gives you a kick to fuck the system. That's a weakness, Ricker. A big one. Computer, copy all data to disc."

She turned to her 'link. It was time to find out just where Ricker was currently cooling his well-shod heels.

– =O=-***-=O=-

She considered it good luck that Ricker was spending some time in his Connecticut compound. She considered it his arrogance that he'd agreed to meet with her without making her dance through a sea of attorneys.

She made the drive in good time and was met at the gate by a trio of hatchet-faced guards who put her through an ID scan for form's sake. She was instructed to leave her vehicle just inside the gates and get into a small, sleek cart.

Its operator was an equally small and sleek female droid who drove her along the winding, tree-lined path to a sprawling three-story house of wood and glass that perched on a rocky slope over a restless sea.

There was a fountain at the entrance where a stone woman draped in a flowing gown gracefully poured pale blue water from a pitcher into a pool teeming with red fish. A gardener worked a plot of flowers at the east side of die house.

He wore baggy gray pants and shirt, a wide-brimmed hat, and a double-scoped distance laser.

Another female droid met her at the door, this one a comfortably built serving model in a starched black uniform. Her smile was welcoming, her voice warm.

"Good day, Lieutenant Dallas. Mr. Ricker is expecting you. I hope you had a pleasant trip. If you'd follow me, please."

Eve studied the house as they walked through. Here, the money all but dripped. It didn't have the class of Roarke's place where the mood was rich but somehow homey, with its polished woods and muted colors. Ricker went for the modern and the garish, surrounding himself with eye-searing colors, too much fabric, and not enough taste.

Everything was sharp-edged and accented by what she now concluded was his signature silver.

Thirty pieces of silver, she thought as she stepped into a room done in blood-red with a breathless view of the sea through the window-wall. The other walls were jammed with art, all of it modernistic or surreal or whatever the hell they called stuff that was nothing more than slashes of paint on canvas and pulsing slides of ugly colors on glass.

The scent of flowers was heavy here, and funereal, the light over-bright, and the furniture all sliding, sinuous curves with glimmering cushions and silver limbs.

Ricker sat in one of the chairs, sipping something violently pink out of a long, slim tube. He got graciously to his feet, smiled.

"Ah, Eve Dallas. We meet at last. Welcome to my humble home. What can we offer you in the way of refreshment?"

"Nothing."

"Oh, well, you've only to ask if you change your mind." There was a roundness to his voice, something that reminded her of the dialogue in some of the old black-and-white videos Roarke liked to watch. "That will be all, Marta."

"Yes, Mr. Ricker." She backed out of the room, closing the doors behind her.

"Eve Dallas," he said again, eyes sparkling as he gestured to a chair. "This is absolutely delightful. May I call you Eve?"

"No."

The sparkle turned cold, silver sleet now, even as he let out a hearty laugh. "Pity. Lieutenant, then. Won't you sit down? I have to admit to some curiosity about the woman who married one of my old… I was going to say proteges," he said as he sat again. "But I'm sure Roarke would object to the term. So I'll say one of my former associates. I had hoped he would accompany you today."

"He has no business here, or with you."

"Not at the moment. Please sit. Be comfortable."

Comfort wasn't one of the options in the ugly chair, but she sat.

"How attractive you are." He spoke smoothly while his gaze crawled over her.

Men who looked at a woman in just that way wanted her to feel sexually vulnerable, physically uneasy. Eve only felt mildly insulted.

"In a competent, unpretentious sort of fashion," Ricker finished. "Not what one expected of Roarke, of course. His taste always ran to the more stylish, more obviously female." He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, and she noted he had his nails painted in his signature color. And the tips were filed to vicious little points.

"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 of 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.