Judgment in Death

CHAPTER SEVEN

So she told him, running through the steps and movements of her day in a tone very close to the one she'd used in her oral report to Whitney. Dispassionate, professional, cool.

He said nothing, not a word, stretching out the silence until her nerves were riding on the surface of her skin. His eyes never left her face and gave her no clue to what he was thinking. Feeling. Just that deep, wicked blue, cold now as Arctic ice.

She knew what he was capable of when pushed. No, not even when pushed, she thought as her nerves kicked into a gallop. When he believed whatever methods he used were acceptable.

When she was finished, he rose, walked casually to the wall panel that concealed a bar. He helped himself to a glass of wine, held up the bottle. "Would you like one?"

"Ah… sure."

He poured a second glass, as steadily, as naturally as if they'd been sitting discussing some minor household incident. She wasn't easily rattled, had faced pain and death without a tremor, had waded through the pain and death of others as a matter of routine.

But God, he rattled her. She took the glass he offered her and had to remind herself not to gulp it down like water.

"So… that's all there is to it."

He sat again, gracefully arranged himself on the cushion. Like a cat, she thought. A very big, very dangerous cat. He sipped his wine, watching her over the crystal rim.

"Lieutenant," he said in a voice so mild it might have fooled another.

"What?"

"Do you expect me-honestly expect me-to do nothing?"

She set her glass down. It wasn't the time for wine. "Yes."

"You're not a stupid woman. Your instincts and intellect are two of the things I admire most about you."

"Don't do this, Roarke. Don't make this personal."

His eyes flashed, a hard glint of blue steel. "It is personal."

"Okay, no." She could handle it. Had to. And leaned forward toward him. "It's not, unless you let him string you. He wants it to be, wants you to make it personal so he can fuck with you. Roarke, you're not a stupid man. Your instincts and intellect are two of the things I admire most about you."

For the first time in more than an hour, his lips curved in a hint of a smile. "Well done, Eve."

"He can't hurt me." Seeing her opening, all but diving through it, she shifted onto her knees, put her hands on his shoulders. "Unless you let him. He can hurt me through you. Don't let him do that. Don't play the game."

"Do you think I won't win?"

She lowered to her heels. "I know you will. It scares me knowing you will and what the cost could be to both of us. To us, Roarke. Don't do this. Let me work it."

He said nothing a moment, looking in her eyes, studying what he saw there, felt there. "If he touches you again, puts his mark on you again, he's dead. No, be quiet," he said before she could speak. "I'll stand back so far, for you. But he crosses the line, and it's over. I'll find the way, the time, and it's over."

"I don't need that."

"Darling Eve." He touched her now, just a skim of his fingertips over her jaw. "I need that. You don't know him. As much as you've seen, as much as you've done, you don't know him. I do."

Sometimes, she reminded herself, you had to settle for what you could get. "You won't go after him."

"Not at the moment. And that costs me, so leave it at that."

When he pushed off the couch, she felt the chill, swore under her breath. "You're still pissed off at me."

"Oh yes. Yes, I am."

"What do you want from me?" Exasperated, she scrambled to her feet and wished she didn't want to punch a fist into his gorgeous face for lack of a better solution. "I said I was sorry."

"You're sorry because I pinned you."

"Okay, right. That's mostly right." Out of patience with him, with herself, she kicked viciously at the sofa. "I don't know how to do this! I love you, and it makes me crazy. Isn't that bad enough?"

He had to laugh. She looked so baffled. "Christ Jesus, Eve, you're a piece of work."

"I ought to at least get some sort of handicap for… Damn it," she hissed as her communicator beeped. She resisted the urge to simply pluck it out and wing it against the wall. Instead, she just kicked the sofa again. "Dallas. What?"

Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. DOS reported, George Washington Bridge, eastbound, level two. Victim is preliminarily identified as Mills, Lieutenant Alan, assigned to Precinct One two-eight, Illegals Division. You are ordered to report to scene immediately, as primary.

"Oh God. Oh Christ. Acknowledged. Contact Peabody, Officer Delia, to act as aide. I'm on my way."

She was sitting now, her head weighing heavily in one hand, her stomach dragging to her knees. "Another cop. Another dead cop."

"I'm going with you. With you, Lieutenant," Roarke said when she shook her head. "Or alone. But I'm going. Get dressed. I'll drive. I can get us there faster."

– =O=-***-=O=-

The bridge sparkled, an arch teeming with lights against the clear night sky. In that sky, busy air traffic streamed, all but obliterating the tentative light of a thumbnail moon.

Life surged on.

On the second level of the bridge, closed now to traffic, a dozen black and whites and city units crowded together like hounds on a hunt. She could hear the 'link chatter, the mutters and oaths, as she cut through the uniforms and plain-clothes.

More lights, cold blue, iced white and blood red washed over her face. She didn't speak but walked to the dirty beige vehicle parked in the break-down lane.

Mills was in the passenger's seat, his eyes closed, his chin on his chest as if he'd stopped to take a catnap. From the chin down, he was blood.

Eve stood, coating her hands with Seal-It, and studied the position of the body.

Posed, she thought as she leaned in the open window. She saw the badge, facedown on the bloody floor of the car, and she saw the dull glint of silver coins.

"Who found him?"

"Good Samaritan." One of the uniforms stepped forward, as if he'd been waiting anxiously for his cue. "We got him stashed in a unit with a couple of cops. He's pretty shook."

"You get a name, a statement?"

"Yes, sir." Smartly, the uniform flipped out his notebook, keyed in. "James Stein, 1001 Ninety-fifth. He was heading home from work-worked late tonight-and saw the vehicle in the break-down lane. Wasn't much traffic, he said, and he saw somebody sitting in the car. Felt bad about it. Stopped, went over to see if he could lend a hand. When he saw the deceased, he called it in."

"When did the call come in?"

"Ah, twenty-one-fifteen. My partner and I were first on-scene, and arrived at twenty-one-twenty-five. We recognized the vehicle as departmental, called it in, and transmitted the vehicle identification number and a physical description of the deceased."

"All right. Have Stein taken home."

"Sir? You don't want to question him?"

"Not tonight. Verify his address and have him taken home." She turned away from the uniform and saw Peabody and McNab hustle out of another black and white.

"Lieutenant." Peabody glanced toward the car, and her mouth went tight. "I was with McNab when the call came through. I couldn't shake him off."

"Yeah." Eve looked over to where Roarke stood, dark against the lights. "I know the feeling. Seal up, record the scene, all angles." She didn't bother to bite back an oath when yet another car squealed up, and Captain Roth jumped out.

Eve walked over to meet her.

"Report, Lieutenant."

Eve didn't report to Roth, and they both knew it. They studied each other a moment, a subtle flexing of muscles. "At this point, Captain, you know what I know."

"What I know, Lieutenant, is you fucked up, and I've got another man dead."

The chatter around them cut off, as if someone had severed vocal chords with a knife.

"Captain Roth, I'll give you leeway for emotional distress. But if you want to try to set me down, you do it officially. You don't come at me on my crime scene."

"It's no longer your scene."

Eve simply sidestepped and blocked Roth from shoving by her. "Yes, it is. And because it is, I have the authority to have you removed, should it become necessary. Don't make it necessary."

"You want to take me on, Dallas?" Roth jabbed a finger between Eve's breasts. "You want to go a round with me?"

"Not particularly, but I will if you put your hands on me again or try to interfere with my investigation. Now, you either back off, fall in, or remove yourself from the sealed area."

Roth's eyes flared, her teeth bared, and Eve braced herself for what was to come.

"Captain!" Clooney pushed his way through the crowd of cops. His face was flushed, his breath short as if he'd been running. "Captain Roth, may I speak with you, sir? In private."

Roth vibrated another moment, then seemed to pull herself in. With a brisk nod, she turned and strode back to her vehicle.

"I'm sorry about that, Lieutenant," Clooney murmured. His gaze slid past her, rested miserably on Mills. "This cuts deep with her."

"Understood. Why are you here, Clooney?"

"Word travels." He sighed, long and deep. "I'm going to be knocking on another door tonight, sitting with another widow. Goddamn it."

He turned away, walked to where Roth waited.

"She's got no cause slapping at you that way." McNab said it, from just behind her.

Eve shifted, stared at the scene Peabody meticulously recorded. "That's cause," she said.

He didn't think so but decided to let it go. "Can I help out here?"

"I'll let you know." She took a step away, looked back. "McNab?"

"Yes, sir?"

"You're not always a complete asshole."

It made him grin, and he slipped his hands into his pockets and wandered over to Roarke. "Hey. You doing a ride-along, too?"

"Apparently." Roarke had a low-grade urge for a cigarette, which annoyed him. "What's the story on Captain Roth?" When McNab started to shrug, Roarke smiled. "Ian, no one knows the gossip like an e-detective."

"You got that right. Okay, maybe we poked around a little when we heard about Kohli, seeing as he was hers. She's a hard-ass, eighteen years on, got a shit-pot load of busts under her belt, a slew of commendations, and a couple minor reprimands for insubordination. They came early on, though. Moved up the ranks, and took a lot of crap work to do it. Been captain under a year, and word is she's holding onto it by her fingernails since the Ricker case blew up under her."

They both glanced back to where Roth and Eve had squared off. "And that," Roarke said, "makes her touchy."

"Looks like. Had a little problem with alcohol a few years back. Did voluntary rehab before it became a big one. On her second marriage, and my source says it looks pretty shaky right now. She lives and breathes the job."

He paused a minute, watching Roth talk to Clooney. "You want my take, she's territorial and competitive. Probably have to be to wear captain's bars. Losing two men stings. Having another cop handle the cases is going to eat at her. Especially when it's a cop with a rep like Dallas."

"And what would that rep be?"

"She's the best there is," McNab said simply. He smiled a little. "Peabody wants to be her when she grows up. Speaking of Peabody, I just wanted to say how that advice you gave me-you know about the romance angle-it's working pretty good."

"Glad to hear it."

"She's still seeing that slick-handed LC though. Burns my ass."

Roarke glanced down as McNab held out a jumbo pack of wild grape bubble gum. What the hell, he thought, took a cube.

Chewing thoughtfully, they watched their women work.

– =O=-***-=O=-

Eve ignored the onlookers. She could have ordered the scene cleared except for essential personnel, but it felt wrong to do so. The cops were there, a kind of homage to the badge, and to reassure themselves they were alive.

Both were valid reasons to stand by.

"Victim is identified as Mills, Lieutenant Alan, attached to the One two-eight, Illegals Division. Caucasian, age fifty-four."

Eve recited the data into the record as she gently lifted the chin. "The victim was found by civilian Stein, James, in the passenger seat of his official vehicle, on the break-down lane on the George Washington Bridge, eastbound. Cause of death not yet determined. He'd been drinking, Peabody."

"Sir?"

"Gin, from the smell of it."

"I don't know how you catch it," Peabody muttered, breathing between her teeth. "With the rest of the stench here."

With a sealed hand, Eve turned back Mills's jacket, saw his weapon still holstered. "Doesn't look like he even went for it. Why wasn't he driving? It's his unit. Most cops have to have their hands pried off the wheel before they let somebody else man their ride."

She wrinkled her nose. "That's more than blood and bowels and gin I'm smelling."

She released the seat belt, then jerked her hands back, an instinctive move, as his guts slithered out, sliding nastily from under his shirt.

"Oh. Oh Christ." Peabody choked, went glassily pale, stumbled back. "Dallas…"

"Get some air. Go on."

"I'm okay, I…" But her head spun, her stomach revolted. She managed to get to the side of the bridge before she lost the cheese and bean tacos she'd shared with McNab.

Eve closed her eyes a moment, bore down and bore down hard. There was a dull roar in her head, like the sea cresting. She blanked her mind until she was certain the rumbles she heard were from the traffic on the level below and from the sky overhead.

With steady hands, she unbuttoned Mills's fouled shirt. He'd been sliced, one long wide swath, from breastbone to crotch.

She noted it into the record while Peabody retched.

Sickened, she straightened, stepped back, let the marginally fresher air fill her lungs. Her gaze skimmed over a sea of faces: some grim, some horrified, some frightened. Peabody wasn't the only cop leaning over the bridge.

"I'm all right. I'm okay."

Through the pounding bells in her ears, Eve heard Peabody's weak voice.

"Come on, sit down a minute. Sit down, honey."

"McNab, get her recorder. I need it here."

"No, I can do it. I can." Peabody nudged McNab's patting hands away, straightened her shoulders. Her face was dead white to the lips. She shuddered once, but she walked back. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant."

"There's no shame in it. Give me your recorder. I'll finish this."

"No, sir. I can hold."

After a moment's study, Eve nodded. "Get him on record. Don't think about it. Close your mind to it."

"How?" Peabody asked, but turned to do the work.

Eve lifted a hand, had nearly rubbed it over her face before she remembered what it was smeared with. "Where the hell's the ME?"

"Lieutenant." Roarke stepped to her, held out a pristine white silk handkerchief.

"Yeah, thanks." She used it without a thought. "You can't be here. You have to stay back." She looked around for somewhere to dispose of the smeared silk and ended up stuffing it into an evidence bag.

"You need to take a minute," Roarke said quietly. "Anyone would."

"I can't afford it. I fold, even look like I'm going to, and I lose control of the scene." She stayed crouched, added a fresh coat of sealant to her hands. She got to her feet, handed him the ruined handkerchief in its bag. "Sorry about that."

Then she planted her feet, legs spread, as Roth marched back to Mills's car with Clooney in her wake. Roth stopped short, as if she'd run into an invisible wall, and stared at what there was of the man who'd served under her command.

"Ah, holy mother of God." It was all she said, her only sign of distress. While her eyes were burning dry, Clooney's misted with tears.

"Jesus, Mills. Jesus, look what they did to you." He closed his eyes, breathed long and deep. "We can't tell the family this. Can't give them the details of this. Captain Roth, we have to go inform next of kin before they hear some other way. We have to cover over the worst of this for their sakes."

"All right, Art. All right." She looked over as Eve took out her communicator.

"What are you doing?"

"Checking on the ME, Captain."

"I've just done so. ETA is under two minutes. A moment, Lieutenant. In private. Clooney, assist the lieutenant's aide in keeping the scene secure. I don't want any of those cops moving closer."

Eve walked away with her, away from the glare of lights into the softer shadows. The air cleared, the scent of exhaust and pavement was like balm after a burn.

"Lieutenant, I apologize for my earlier outburst."

"Apology accepted."

"That was very quick."

"So was your apology."

Roth blinked, then nodded slowly. "I hate making them. I haven't gotten where I am on the job by indulging my temper or apologizing for it. Neither, I imagine, have you. Women are still more closely scrutinized in the department and more strictly judged."

"That may be true, Captain. I don't let it concern me."

"Then you're a better woman than I, Dallas, or a great deal less ambitious. Because it burns the living hell out of me." She inhaled, hissed the breath out through her teeth. "My coming at you as I have has been an emotional reaction, an indulgence again, that was both inappropriate and ill-advised. I'm going to tell you that I overreacted to Kohli's death because I liked him, very much. I believe I overreacted to Mills because I disliked him. Very much."

She glanced back at the car. "He was a son of a bitch, a mean-spirited man who made no secret that, in his opinion, women should be having babies, cooking pies, and not wearing a badge. He disliked blacks, Jews, Asians… hell, he disliked everyone who wasn't just what he was: an overfed white male. But he was my cop, and I want whoever opened him up that way."

"So do I, Captain."

Roth nodded again, and together they watched the ME arrive. Morse, Eve noted. Only the top dog for one of the boys in blue.

"Homicide isn't my sphere, Dallas, as Clooney in his calm, reasonable manner has pointed out to me. I know your rep, and I'm depending on it. I want…" She trailed off and seemed to bite down on impatience. "I'd appreciate being sent a copy of your report."

"You'll have it in the morning."

"Thank you." She looked back, her eyes skimming over Eve's face. "Are you as good as they say?"

"I don't listen to what they say."

Roth gave a short laugh. "You want to wear bars, you'd better start." And she held out a hand.

Eve took it. They parted ways, one to speak of death and the other to stand over it.

As she walked, Eve glanced up and spotted the first media copter.

That, she decided, was a problem for later.

"Well, they made a mess out of him, didn't they?" Morse took the time to pull on a protective gown, then placidly sealed his hands and shoes while Eve waited beside him.

"Push the tox reports. I'm betting he was unconscious when he was sliced. His weapon's still on safety, and there aren't any defensive wounds. I could smell gin on him."

"Take a hell of a lot of gin to take a man his size under far enough that this could be done to him without his objection. You think he was killed while he sat there?"

"Too much blood for otherwise. The killer got him drunk, doped, whatever, took the time to unbutton his shirt, sliced him right down the middle. Then he buttoned him up again, strapped him in. Even tipped the seat back just enough so that his insides would stay in, more or less, until some lucky winner unstrapped him."

"Bet I can guess who that lucky winner was." Morse smiled at her with a great deal of sympathy.

"Yeah, I rang that bell." She was, damn it, going to feel the sensation of Mills's intestines slopping over her hands for a long, very long time. "The killer drove Mills here," she continued, "and walked away. We won't find any prints."

She scanned the area. "Ballsy. Ballsy again. He'd have to sit here. Maybe he even did it here, but I'm thinking he's not that much of a fucking daredevil. But he'd have to sit here and wait until he was sure it was clear enough for him to get out of the car. He had to have another transpo close by."

"An accomplice?"

"Maybe. Maybe. I can't rule it out. We'll check with the traffic cops, see if they spotted another car in the breakdown lane tonight. He didn't just walk off the goddamn bridge. He had a plan. He knew the steps. Get me the tox, Morse."

Peabody was standing by the rail, McNab beside her. She'd gotten her color back, but Eve thought she knew the kind of images her aide would see when she closed her eyes that night.

"McNab, you want in on this?"

"Yes, sir."

"Go with Peabody, get the traffic discs from the toll booths. All discs, all levels, for the last twenty-four hours."

"All?"

"We're going to be thorough, and maybe we'll get lucky. Start scanning them, starting backward with this level from twenty hundred hours. Find me this vehicle."

"You got it."

"Peabody, do a standard background on James Stein, the Good Samaritan. I don't expect you to find anything, but let's clear him out. Report, my home office, oh eight hundred."

"You've got Lewis in the morning," Peabody reminded her. "I'm scheduled for six-thirty at Central."

"I'll handle Lewis. You're going to be putting in a long night."

"So are you." Peabody's face turned mulish. "I'll report to Central as ordered, Lieutenant."

"Christ, have it your own way." Eve dragged a hand through her hair and reorganized her thoughts. "Have the first uniforms on-scene provide your transpo. One of them's a hot dog. He needs something to do."

She turned away from them, strode to Roarke. "I have to ditch you."

"I'll ride with you to Central, then find transportation home."

"I'm not going to Central straight off. I have some stops to make. I'll have one of the black and whites take you back."

He looked toward the units with mild disdain. "I believe I'll find my own transportation, thanks all the same."

Why, she thought, was everyone arguing with her tonight? "I'm not going to just leave you on the damn bridge."

"I can find my way home, Lieutenant. Where are you going?"

"Just some things I have to do before I write my report." His voice was so damn cool, she thought. His eyes so detached. "How long are you going to be pissed off at me?"

"I haven't decided. But I'll be sure to let you know."

"You're making me feel like a jerk."

"Darling, you managed that perfectly well on your own."

Guilt and temper tangled inside her, had her glaring at him. "Well, fuck it," she said, then grabbed him by the lapels of his coat, yanked him to her, and kissed him hard. "See you later," she muttered and stalked away.

"Count on it."