Judgment in Death (8 page)

"In Utumwa."

"Right. She was always chasing after him." Nancie frowned over it, then appeared to let it go. "So Taj was being sweet and telling me not to fret over that. How I was a pretty young girl and would find the right man when the time came. He said how when you found the right person, that was just it, and you didn't even have to wonder about it. I'd just know. I could tell he was thinking about his wife, because he always got this soft look in his eyes when he thought about her. It made me feel good, so I stayed a little longer. Viney should have been there to close up with him, but he was sick. Did I tell you that?"

"Yes," Eve said, a little dizzy. "You did."

"Okay, he was sick, like I said. We aren't really supposed to close up alone, but sometimes we do. Taj said to me how it was getting late, and I should go on home. He said he'd call me a cab, but I was going to take the subway. He wouldn't let me, because the streets can be dangerous at night, so I called a cab, and he waited at the door until I got in it. That was like him," she said, and her eyes went damp again. "He was sweet that way."

"Did he tell you anything about expecting a friend to come by that night?"

"I don't think..." She trailed off, pursed her lips. "Maybe. Maybe he did, when I was crying the blues a little over Joey, and missing my friends from home, I think he said something about how friends were always friends. I think maybe he said he was looking forward to seeing a friend later. But I didn't take it to mean that night, at the club. Anyway." She sighed, dabbed under her eyes with a fingertip. "A friend didn't hurt Taj that way. Friends don't do that."

It depends, Eve thought. It very much depends on the friend.

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.

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."