Judgment in Death (21 page)

The IRS had received an anonymous tip, and though it hadn't been traced to Bayliss or his crew, it had resulted in a full audit of the sergeant's financials. Nothing suspicious had been found, but the audit had cost the unlucky cop thousands of dollars in legal fees and lost time.

She would have to take a much closer look at Bayliss, and now at the beleaguered Sergeant Matt Myers.

She wanted to go deeper but lacked the tech skill. She glanced over at Roarke, but she knew from his intent and focused expression that he wouldn't welcome the interruption.

Rather than humiliate herself with failure by attempting to access Bayliss's personal files, she tried another route.

She contacted Webster.

"Bayliss," she said without preamble. "Talk to me."

"A fanatic disguised as a crusader. A disguise I bought, I'm sorry to say, for a considerable amount of time. Dedicated to his particular mission. Charismatic along with it, like some prophet preaching a new religion."

She sat back, hummed. "Really?"

"Yeah, gets you hyped, which is what can pull you along before you realize you've just stepped knee-deep in a pile of shit. On the other hand, he's exposed corruption and moved a lot of dirty cops out of the system."

"By any means necessary."

"Okay." Webster sighed, rubbed the back of his neck. "That's true, particularly over the last year. His methods have been making me uneasy. I'm pretty sure he has files, extensive ones, on every cop in the department. Not that he shares them with me. He crosses over the line, privacy and procedure wise. I used to think it was justified."

"What changed your mind?"

"Sergeant Myers. He was officer of record on the Ricker evidence that mysteriously vanished or became corrupted. Jesus, Bayliss hounded him to death. He was convinced Myers was in Ricker's pocket, though there was no evidence, overt or covert, to substantiate it. My take is he figured he'd get Myers off the job one way or the other, but the guy stood up. He just wouldn't break, he wouldn't shake. When the department cleared him, he transferred to a house in Queens. Bayliss never forgot it, and he's been burning low over the slap on the wrist he took from The Tower."

"Tibble rapped him."

"That's the word. Right after the rap, he started the operation with Kohli. Maybe he figured he'd vindicate himself and end up with a shine. I don't know, Dallas, he's a hard one to figure."

"Do you know if this Myers is still alive and well in Queens?"

"I never heard otherwise." Webster's eyes widened. "Christ, Dallas, you don't think Bayliss is out there killing cops?"

"It would get them off the job, wouldn't it?" she countered. "One way or the other. You said you wanted in, Webster. Did you mean it?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I meant it."

"Then here's your first assignment. Check out Myers, make sure he hasn't met with any recent accidents. And if he's still breathing, see if you can find out if he's been visiting our fair city."

He hadn't worked Homicide for years, but he picked up fast. Nodded. "He'd have plenty of reason to resent dirty cops. What angle are you working?"

"I've got plenty of them. Right now, I'm going to get a warrant for Bayliss's personal files."

"I'll believe that when I see it," he muttered.

"When I do," she continued coolly, "I want your help sorting through them. I'll be in touch."

She cut transmission, then turned to see Roarke watching her. "Are you looking at Bayliss for this?"

"There's dirty and there's dirty. He's got grime under his manicure. How much distance is there between deliberately ruining lives and taking them?" She shrugged. "Webster can keep busy getting me some data on Myers, and we'll see where that goes. I can't say Bayliss is my first choice. I don't think he's got the stomach for blood -- and we've still got Kohli being clean. But one way or the other, he's a connection."

"It's a simple matter to access his personal files."

"It would be, for you. I'll get a warrant, do it straight. If I'm going to bring Bayliss into Interview, and I am, I want it straight, and I want it clean."

"Then you may want to ask for another warrant while you're at it. On Vernon."

"It's already on my list," she began, then got slowly to her feet. "You followed the money."

"I did indeed, through a circuitous, convoluted, and tedious route, back to Max Ricker Unlimited. That doesn't give you Ricker personally passing funds from his hand to Vernon's, but it does involve his corporation. He's not as clever as he once was," Roarke murmured. "Or as careful. It should have taken me twice this long to trace it back to him."

"Maybe you're more clever than you once were." She walked over to study the screen, laying a hand on Roarke's shoulder. Most of what she saw was a jumble of accounts, names, companies. But one name in particular jumped out, made her smile.

"Canarde, am I reading this right? He's attorney of record for Northeast Manufacturing, a subsidiary of Ricker's main deal?"

"That's right."

"And am I reading this one? Canarde authorized the electronic transfer of funds, funneled through the main deal, into Northeast, over into this other corporation, up into the casino in Vegas II, where Vernon picked it up, ostensibly as gambling winnings."

"I'm so proud." He took the hand on her shoulder, pressed his lips to her palm.

"Thanks, but you've diagramed it here so a moron could connect the dots. I wanted a shot at that smug son of a bitch Canarde. Now I've got one. Except I can't use it," she said in disgust and paced away. "Unless I can get Vernon to roll."

She'd get him to roll, she promised herself, then moving away from the control center so that her communicator screen would show nothing but the screened window, she contacted her commander.

She wanted some brass knuckles.

Roarke sat where he was, watching her, listening to her make her case: clear, he thought, concise, detailed, and dispassionate. He knew her like a book and could already see the steps she planned to take.

He wasn't the least surprised when she pressed Whitney after he agreed to throw his weight into her request for a warrant in the morning.

"Sir, I want to move on Captain Bayliss tonight."

"Lieutenant, Captain Bayliss remains a ranking officer in the NYPSD. Convincing a judge to grant an immediate warrant ordering him to submit to interrogation regarding two homicides is going to be tricky."

"I realize that, Commander. Which is why I contacted you, in the hopes that you will, in turn, contact Chief Tibble."

"You want me to call Tibble in on this?"

"Certain information has come into my hands that leads me to believe Chief Tibble will be receptive to this request. I cannot at this point in my investigation ascertain whether Captain Bayliss is a suspect or a target. However, I have no doubt he falls on one side of the line. If he's a target, quick action may save his life. If he is a suspect, that same action may save another."

"Dallas, your personal feelings -- "

"Do not apply, sir, and have not influenced my current findings."

"Be damn sure of it," Whitney muttered. "I'll contact the chief."

"Thank you, Commander. At this time, I request a second warrant for Detective Jeremy Vernon of the One two-eight, requiring him to report for a formal interview at nine hundred tomorrow morning, regarding the same investigation."

"Christ." It was his first and only exclamation. "You've been busy."

"Yes, sir," she said so coolly he let out a short laugh.

"I'll get the warrants, Lieutenant. Expect me, and in all probability Chief Tibble, in observation during these interviews. Let's take some care here. We're going to look like we've taken a page from IAB's book."

"Understood. I'll await verification and receipt of the warrants."

"Well done," Roarke said quietly when she ended the transmission.

"Not close to done. I have to go get dressed. Thanks for the help."

"One moment." He rose and walked to her. He took her face in his hands and lowered his mouth, taking hers in a kiss of quiet, somehow desperate tenderness.

She felt it in her heart, that answering flutter; in her stomach, that slow, sliding drop. Her hands came up to settle at his waist. "Roarke -- "

"Just be quiet a minute." He changed the angle, taking the kiss deeper, a long, lazy trip into glory.

Her hands slid around him, her arms wrapped to bring him close. And she understood he was showing her, offering her, the other side of passion. The sweetness of it, and the promise.

When he drew back, she found herself smiling, even as her head spun. "I could probably spare one more minute."

"Come home soon." This time he pressed his lips to her forehead. "And we'll take all the time we want."

"Good thinking." She started for the door, then with a half laugh turned back to look at him. "Whenever you do that, you know, like you just did, I always feel a little drunk after. I kind of like it."

She watched his grin flash before she slipped out the door.

In just over an hour, she was standing, with Peabody, at another door. Bayliss lived in a stylish neighborhood in a stylish suburb of New York. His home was a graceful if unimaginative two-story dwelling in a tidy forest of others like it. Lawns were rigorously mowed, tastefully fenced, and security lighted.

The house itself was dark and silent, with a discreet plaque by the door warning that the premises was guarded by Alarm Dog Security Systems, Inc.

Still, when she rang the bell, the summons was almost immediately answered by a polite request for identification.

"Police." Eve held up her badge. "I have a warrant. You're required to open the door.

It was opened, quickly, by an attractive house droid in a simple gray maid's uniform. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant, neither Captain nor Mrs. Bayliss are at home this evening."

"And where would they be?"

"Mrs. Bayliss is in Paris on a spring shopping trip with her sister. She has been from home for three days. I am unable to tell you where Captain Bayliss is this evening. He is not at home."

"This warrant allows me to enter the premises and ascertain that for myself."

"Yes, Lieutenant. I am fully programmed on the law." She stepped back. "But you will find the captain is not at home this evening."

Eve stepped in. "Has he been home today?"

"Oh yes. He arrived home at shortly after four o'clock this afternoon. He left approximately fifty-eight minutes later. I do not expect him to return tonight."

"And why is that?"

"The captain left with a suitcase."

"Where's his room? His bedroom?"

"On the second level, first door to the left. Would you like me to escort you?"

"No." Eve bounded up the stairs, shoved into the room, swore.

He'd been in a hurry, she thought. The closet door was open, two drawers were open as well.

"Another clothes horse," she muttered. "Hard to say how much he took. Peabody, find out where the wife's staying in Paris. He's got a weekend place, vacation home, whatever. I think it was the Hamptons. Get the address."

"Do you think he's gone under?"

"I think he's gone," Eve said sharply. "Get the addresses. He's got to have an office in this place. I'm going to check it out."

She found his office on the first level and had already formed an opinion of Bayliss's lifestyle by the time she reached it. The house was as cold and as organized as a computer. Everything in its place.

And, she'd noted, he and his wife didn't share a bedroom. Or, she assumed, a bed, as the bedroom down the hall from Bayliss's was an obvious feminine retreat, complete with dressing area, two-level walk-in closet, and a sitting area that had contained a desk holding fancy writing paper with his wife's name at the top.

His office was ruthlessly organized as well, and she saw immediately he'd run through it quickly. The desk chair was pushed back, and a file box of discs stood with its cover not quite straight.

Nerves, she thought. Nerves that made him not quite so smart and not quite so careful this time. What are you afraid of, Bayliss?

She pulled out her palm-link and, using her badge and identification, ran checks on transportation to Paris. Though she found nothing under Bayliss's name, she couldn't be sure he hadn't used an alias.

She walked to the door, gave a shout to Peabody, who came on the run. "I have the information for you." She ran it off.

"Good. We're going to stretch the warrant to its limit. I want you to contact Feeney. That unit," she said, jerking her thumb back. "I want it gone over with microgoggles. He took data with him, but Feeney will find what's on the machine. While he's doing that, I want you going over this house inch by inch."

"Yes, sir. Where are you going?" she asked as Eve strode out.

"I'm going to the beach."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Eve checked the fit of her safety harness and resisted the urge, the increasingly desperate urge, to simply close her eyes. "I'm not really in that much of a hurry."

Roarke cocked a brow in her direction while piloting the new Air/Land Sports Streamer through a sky turning soft with evening. "That's not what you said when you asked me to get you there."

"I didn't know you had some new toy you were dying to try out. Jesus." She made the mistake of glancing down and saw the coastline and its complement of houses, hotels, and beachfront communities whiz by. "We don't have to be this high, either."

"We're not that high." If Eve had one phobia, it was heights. To his way of thinking, she'd feel better as soon as they landed, so why not open the ALS up and see what it could do?

"High enough to crash," she muttered and ordered herself to think of something -- anything -- else. It would have taken her a great deal longer to make the trip to Bayliss's beach hideaway in her city unit, particularly now that it was acting up.

Even if she'd used one of Roarke's spiffy cars, the distance couldn't have been covered so quickly by road.

The most logical solution was to draft him to fly her there. Logical, she thought, if she lived.

"Bayliss is up to something," she said over the smooth roar of the ALS's engines. "He was in and out of his place too fast, didn't re-program his house droid, and he took files."

"You'll be able to ask him what he's up to yourself in a few minutes." Testing the controls, Roarke took the sleek little streamer up another twenty feet, executed a turn.

Eve cut her eyes in his direction as he fiddled with controls, manually, then through voice command. "What are you doing?"

"Just checking. I'd say this baby's ready for production."

"What do you mean ready for?"

"This is just the prototype."

She felt the color drain out of her face. Actually felt it. "As in experimental?"

With his dark hair whipping in the air blowing through his open window, he tossed her a wide, delighted grin. "Not anymore. We're going down."

"What?" She braced every cell in her body. "What?"

"On purpose, darling."

If he'd been by himself, he'd have taken the streamer into a dive to check the responses, but in consideration of his wife, he kept the descent slow and smooth, targeting the road, hovering over it.

"Switch to landing mode," he ordered.

Switch in mode confirmed. Flaps lowering. Retracting.

"Touching down."

Touchdown confirmed. Switching to land drive.

There was barely a bump as the silver streamer set its wheels on the road. And barely, Eve noted sourly, a decrease of speed.

"Slow down, hotshot. This is a posted area."

"We're on official business. When the weather warms up a bit more, we can try this with the top down."

As far as Eve was concerned, hell wouldn't be warm enough to induce her to skim along in the fancy little two-seater without a roof. But she looked at the dash map, impressed that it not only had Bayliss's house targeted, but that Roarke had set down less than a mile from their destination.

Logic, she thought now that she was on solid ground again, had its uses.

She could hear the water, a steady rise and slap of sound to the east. Houses, predominately of glass and recycled wood rose and spread, each seeming to try to outdo the next with how many decks they could manage to jut out toward sand and sea. The patches between them were manicured with sea oats, sand roses, and odd little sculptures that carried over the ocean theme.

Lights twinkled here and there, but for the most part, the houses were dark. This was where the rich and the privileged escaped from New York on weekends or during the long, hot summer.

"How come you don't have a place here?"

"Actually, I do have a string of properties that rent out, but I never had a yen to stay in one. Too ordinary and obvious." He smiled at her. "But if you'd like one..."

"No. It's too much like a neighborhood or something. You'd come down to kick back and probably have to talk to people. And have, I don't know, get-togethers and stuff."

"Hideous thought." Amused, he turned off and pulled into the drive behind a hulking black sedan. "Do we assume that's his car?"

"Yeah." She scoped out the house. Not so different from the others lining the coast. Big arches filled with glass that opened to decks and were loaded with enormous urns of enormous flowers or potted trees. The structure was blond and gleaming in the half light and came to triple points on the third level where another deck ran in a ring.

"Pretty snazzy for a cop," she commented. "But then he's got a rich spouse." She glanced at Roarke. "That kind of thing comes in handy."

"So I've heard."

"If he's in there, he's in the dark. I don't like it." It had been her plan to convince Roarke to wait in the car. Something she'd assumed would take some doing. Now her gut told her to try a different plan.

They got out opposite sides and walked up a narrow boardwalk to the front door. There were tall, glass panels flanking it, etched with stylized seashells. Through them she could scan the main living area with its soaring ceilings and pale walls.

Instinctively, she hitched her jacket back so her weapon would be more accessible. And rang the bell. "You'd think the place was empty, wouldn't you? Except for the car."

"He might've taken a walk on the beach. People tend to do that here."

She shook her head. "He wouldn't be in the mood to stroll through the surf." She made the decision, bent down, and took her clinch piece from her ankle holster.

"I need you to go around, cover the back. Don't use this, okay? Do not use this unless you're in immediate jeopardy."

"I know the rules." He slipped it in his pocket. "Do you think Bayliss is dangerous?"

"No. No, I don't. But someone is. I'm going up to the second level. I'll circle around, left to right. Watch your back."

"Same goes."

They separated, each confident the other could handle whatever came. Eve moved to the side, up the open steps, over the deck. The doors here were clear sheets of glass and fully secured with their privacy shields lowered. She started to the left, moving slowly, her eyes tracking.

The gleam at her feet had her pausing, crouching. Water, she mused. Someone had slopped water on the deck, a path of it, she noted as she straightened to follow the trail.

The sound of the sea rose, a sly thrash and suck. Stars were beginning to come out, adding faint light to a sky going indigo. Ears cocked, she heard the footsteps mounting the steps to her right. Her fingers danced to her weapon.

It was in her hand when Roarke rounded the building.

"There's water on the steps," he told her.

"Here, too." She lifted a hand, signaled. The side doors were open.

Roarke nodded, moved to the far side of them, and she to the near. Their eyes met, she took a breath, held it. They went through. He took high, she low.

"Take the right," she ordered. "Lights on." When they appeared, she adjusted her eyes to the change, sidestepped left. "Captain Bayliss," she called out. "This is Lieutenant Dallas. I have a warrant. I need you to make your location known."

Her voice echoed off the high ceilings, off the sand-colored walls.

"Bad feeling," she muttered. "Very bad feeling." Sweeping with her weapon, she followed the tracking water. She saw Bayliss's suitcase open on the bed, a jacket tossed carelessly beside it.

She glanced toward Roarke, watched him check a room-sized closet, did the same herself on the other side, then moved along the wet to a door.

She signaled again, waiting until he'd joined her. With her free hand, she turned the knob, then shoving it open went in under Roarke's arm.

Music blared. It gave her a jolt to hear Mavis's voice screeching out into the opulent bathroom. All white and gold, the room almost hurt the eyes with its sheer white walls, gilt pools of mirrors, twin sinks large enough to bathe in.

Under the music she heard the rumble of a motor. She crossed the floor, damp and gleaming white, to the leg of the L-shaped room.

The tub was waist high and white as the Alps, but for the wet river of blood that ran down the side, just below a single hand. Red dripped onto the badge tossed on the floor.

"Damn it. Goddamn it." She leaped to the tub and saw immediately it was far too late for the MTs.

Bayliss lay on the lounging level, his head pillowed on a silver cushion, his body strapped down with long ribbons of adhesive.

His eyes stared up at her, wide and horrified, and already filmed over with death.

Glinting on the floor of the tub were credits. She knew there would be thirty.

"I wasn't fast enough. Somebody wanted him dead more than I wanted him alive."

Roarke lifted a hand to the base of her neck, rubbed once. "You'll want your field kit."

"Yeah." Her assent was a sound of disgust. "Whoever did this is gone, but be careful anyway." She reached for her communicator. "I have to contact the locals. Protocol. Then I'm calling it in. Meanwhile, you're drafted as aide. Seal up before you come back in, and don't -- "

"Touch anything," he finished. "Hell of a way to die," he added. "He'd have been kept alive, aware, strapped down there while the water level rose. The room's soundproofed. No one would have heard him screaming."

"The killer heard him," Eve said and, turning away, opened transmission.

She recorded the scene and did a preliminary sweep before the local police arrived. Knowing she had to balance authority with diplomacy, she requested rather than ordered the sheriff to send his men out to knock on doors.

"Not many people around here just now," Sheriff Reese told her. "Come June, it'll be a different story."

"I realize that. Maybe we'll get lucky. Sheriff, this is your turf, but the victim comes from mine. The killer, too. As this murder links to my ongoing investigation, it falls under my authority. But I need all the help I can get. And your cooperation."

"You'll have it, Lieutenant." He studied her for a moment. "Some people might think we're in the boondocks here, but we're not boobs. Don't get your city crimes too much, but we know how to handle them when we do."

"I appreciate it." She passed him her Seal-It. "Did you know Captain Bayliss?"

"Sure." Reese sprayed his shoes, his hands. "He and his wife were regulars. They spent the month of August here most every year, and about a weekend a month rest of the year. Popped in now and again otherwise. Had parties, spent some money in the village. Didn't have much to do with the locals but were friendly enough. Didn't cause any trouble."

She started upstairs with him. "Did Bayliss make a habit of coming here alone?"

"Not really. He'd come down on a Friday night now and again -- once, twice a year -- stay till Sunday. Went out on his boat, did some fishing. The wife didn't care for fishing. You notify her?"

"My information is that she's in Paris. She'll be contacted. Bayliss ever bring anybody here other than his wife?"

"Can't say he did. Some do, men bring a buddy or a side piece, you'll pardon the expression. Women do the same. Bayliss stuck with his wife. Never heard of him bringing any... entertainment with him."

She nodded, walked to the tub with him. Reese stared down, blew out a breath. "Jesus, that's a sorry sight. I don't mind saying I'm glad this is yours, Lieutenant." Reese scratched his head. "If he was trying to make it look like suicide, why'd he leave the man strapped in there?"

"He wasn't trying to mock a self-termination. He just needed the blood on the badge. It's pattern. I've got the scene recorded, and now that you've officially witnessed it. I'm going to drain the tub, examine the body."

"You go right on." He stepped back and watched Roarke come in.

"My temporary aide," Eve explained. "This is Sheriff Reese."

"I know who you are," Reese said. "Seen your face onscreen often enough. You own some property around here."

"That's right."

"You keep it in good maintenance. We appreciate that around here. That your rig out front?"

"Yes." Roarke smiled a little as Eve turned off the motor. "It's a new line."

"Slick."

"I'll give you a closer look before we go," Roarke offered.

"I'd appreciate that."

"Victim is male, Caucasian," Eve began. "Identified as Bayliss, Captain Boyd, age forty-eight. Cause of death appears to be drowning. Single laceration in left wrist is potentially life-threatening."

She fit on her microgoggles. "No visible hesitation marks," she reported, then pushed them off again. "Victim is wearing a gold wedding ring and a gold wrist unit. A strong adhesive tape has been used to strap the victim to the tub at throat, left forearm, chest, torso, waist, hips, and on both thighs and ankles. No defensive wounds are evident."

The water drained out, little sucking sounds, while she spoke. As the level lowered, Bayliss's hair and genitals floated toward the surface.

"I need to get in to examine the body. Sheriff, will you record?" She slipped the recorder off her jacket, held it out.

"I like my job better than yours." He fixed it to his shirt, moved closer.

She stepped onto the platform, swung a leg over the edge. Already in her mind, the scene played out. He'd have been unconscious, she was sure of that. It wouldn't have been possible to get a healthy, well-built, adult male into the tub and restrained without signs of a struggle.

She planted her feet on either side of the body as she imagined the killer had done. Bending, she began to work at the tape. "Strong stuff. It looks like that tape used for packing cargo and heavy shipments. He used a smooth-bladed tool to cut it. No ragged edges. Probably shears or scissors. Neat, patient work. He took his time."

The tape screeched a little as it pulled away from the smooth, damp surface of the tub. She took her time with it, carefully sliding the tape into evidence bags.

With his head free, Eve lifted it, turned it. And saw no signs of a blow.