Survivor in Death (21 page)

She headed out, and down. Whitney came in the front as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Commander.”

“Lieutenant.” He nodded at Roarke, then crossed to the first body. He said nothing. Then, continuing to look at his fallen men, spoke in a voice dangerously soft. “They don't yet know the wrath. But they will. Report.”

She went through the steps, reporting, recording, collecting, and repressed the storm inside. She stood over Morris as he conducted his on-scene exam. “Stunned first. Midbody hit on both.”

“Preston would have been four or five steps down. He got off a stream,” Eve added. “Might've caught one of them. There's no sign of a hit on the walls, anywhere in the room. Crime Scene ran over it. No residue. No wasted shots here,” she noted. “Everyone who fired hit something they were aiming at.”

“My guess would be he crumbled more than fell. I'll know more when I get him in, but the bruising, the position of the body indicates he was thrust back by the stream, then folded, slid. His throat slit where he lay.”

“They had to lift Knight's head to cut him. Blasted back, plate and cup flying. Hits the floor and rolls facedown.”

She walked back to the front door. “Came in together, one high, one low. It's low guy who takes Knight, from the angle of the hit. High hits Preston. Moving fast, moving smooth.”

She simulated, weapon drawn, heading forward. “One takes Knight.” Blood cold, she moved straight to the body, lifted the head by the hair, mimed drawing a knife over the throat. “Left-handed this time. Versatile bastards. Had the stunners in the right, knives in the left.”

Morris said nothing, only watched.

“Second moves straight to Preston, bends down, slices. Combat grip, one quick stroke. Then he heads up, his partner takes the first floor. Place this size, they can confirm it's empty in under ninety seconds.”

“Have you walked it off already?”

“Yeah, I went through. They're in, they're out. Three minutes. The blood on the floor down here, going into the kitchen and into the toilet's going to be from Knight. Upstairs it's going to be Preston's. Coming off the knives, coming off the gear. The trail of it, the pattern, shows they were moving fast. See, look.”

She strode to the kitchen doorway, swung her weapon right, left. “See the blood there? Pause, sweep the room, move in.”

She looked back up the stairs. “Preston shouldn't have come down like that, exposed. Two seconds where he acts before he thinks--he's thinking about his partner instead of with cop instinct--and he's dead.”

She lowered her weapon, holstered it. “Fuck.”

“Truer words. I'll take care of them now, Dallas.” He didn't touch her--his hands were smeared with blood--but the look in his eyes was as steady as the clasp of a hand.

“We're going to bury them for this, Morris.”

“Yes. Yes, we are.”

She went outside. Most of the reporters who'd gathered had scattered after Whitney had given them a brief statement. Stories to file, she thought.

But she saw Nadine over with Roarke by her vehicle. Some of the anger, the cold hard tips of it, clawed through. She strode toward them, ready to rake the reporter bloody--and have a few swipes left over for her husband--when Nadine turned.

Her face was streaked with tears.

“I knew them,” she said before Eve could speak. “I knew them.”

“Okay.” The anger retracted, scraping those keen tips over her own gut on the way. “Okay.”

“Knight. . . We used to flirt. Nothing serious, nothing that either of us meant to go anywhere, but we did the dance.” Her voice broke. “Preston used to show off pictures of his kid. He's got a little boy.”

“I know. You ought to take some time off, Nadine. A couple of days.”

“After you get them.” She swiped her fingers over her cheeks. “I don't know why it's hit me this way. It's not the first time somebody I know . . .”

“Preston may have hit one of them. I'm telling you that friend to friend, not cop to reporter. Because you knew them. Because I knew them, and thinking he might've hit one of them helps me.”

“Thanks.”

“I've got to go finish up here, seal the scene, then go in,” Eve said to Roarke. “I don't know when I'll be home.”

“Call, will you, when you do?”

“Sure.” She thought of what he'd said earlier about the risks she had to take. And what it might be like for him to see other cops, bloody and dead.

So despite Nadine, despite the other cops, the techs, the few gawkers who'd yet to be nudged on their way, she stepped to him, stepped into him. Laid her hands on his face, laid her lips on his.

“I can get you a ride in one of the black-and-whites.”

He smiled at her. “There is nothing I'd like less. I'll take care of my own transpo. Nadine, I'll give you a lift.”

“If I could have a kiss like that, I'd be lifted into orbit. But I'll settle for a ride to the station. Dallas, if you need some research on the side, another pair of hands or eyes, mine are yours. No strings on this one.”

“I'll keep it in mind. Later.” She strode back up the sidewalk, and back into the narrow box that smelled of death.

WORD SPREAD QUICKLY WHEN COPS WENT down. By the time Eve reached Central, that word had streamed through the maze, slid into cubes and offices, and had the air thick with fury.

She stepped into the bull pen, paused. She wasn't much for speeches. She preferred briefings or orders. But she was rank here, and the men deserved to hear from her.

They were at desks, in cubes, answering 'links, writing reports. A couple were taking statements from civilians who'd either been victimized or had victimized someone else.

There was the smell of bad fake coffee, sickly sugar substitute, sweat, and someone's greasy dinner. And under it was that fury, a ripe, rich, dangerous odor.

Most of the noise stopped when she came in, but one of the civilians continued to weep in soft, liquid sobs. 'Links beeped, and for the moment were ignored.

She knew she had blood on her, and she knew every cop in the room saw it and thought of where it had come from.

“Detectives Owen Knight and James Preston went down in the line at approximately twenty-fifteen this evening. They were murdered while doing the job. Detective Knight leaves a mother, father, and sister. Detective Preston leaves a wife, a three-year-old son, his parents, grandparents. Donations to the Survivors' Fund can be made in their names. Detective Jannson,” Eve said, “will you coordinate?”

The woman nodded. “Yes, sir. Can you give us the status, Lieutenant?”

“We believe tonight's events are connected to the Swisher homicides. Five civilians, two of them minors, were murdered. Preston and Knight, and every one of us, is charged with protecting and serving the people of
New York
, of seeing to their safety. Those of us here, in Homicide, are equally charged to serve those whose lives have been taken, of searching out and apprehending those who take lives. We close cases here, and we'll close this one. For those five civilians, two of them minors, and the people they left behind. Now they've taken two of our own, and we will search them out and apprehend.”

She waited a beat, and there was only silence. “Until such time any and all requests for personal time, vacation time, sick leave must be cleared by me or the ranking officer on shift. You'll be working this case in addition to your currents, reports to be filed daily. No exceptions. At change of shift, report to the ready room for a full briefing and assignments. We're going to hunt them down, and we're going to take them out. That's it.”

She heard no complaints at the additional load as she walked into her office, shut the door.

She got coffee, then just sat.

A police representative and department counselor would have delivered the news by now to the families of the dead. So she was spared that. She would have to speak to them at the memorials, offer some words.

She wanted the words to include: We got the sons of bitches who did this. Who left you a widow, who killed your son, your brother. Who left you without a father.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, then rose to pin the stills from the scene onto her board.

Then she sat to write her report.

None of the other safe houses had been hit. Didn't hit them, she thought, because you knew the target wasn't there. Knew that when you found two armed cops guarding an empty house.

Killing them was a flourish, she decided. A message. No need to finish them off when they were down. Already decided to do that, though. Part of the mission. Take out everybody inside, another clean sweep.

And what's the message? Why add cop killing to the mix when it brings down the full force of the NYPSD? Because you think you're better--smarter, slicker, better equipped. And you know we've made the connection. You know we've got the kid and you want her.

Newman would have told you the kid can't ID you. But she's a detail, she's a miss, and you can't risk it.

I wouldn't, Eve thought. No, I wouldn't chance leaving that thread dangling when I'd been so careful. It's not squared away, and it's a little bit insulting. Some snot-nosed kid slips out from under you?

Pride in the work. She tipped back just a bit, rolled her shoulders. Got to have pride in the work to be that damn good at it. And the mission wasn't accomplished, is not complete until Nixie Swisher is dead.

“So what will you do next?” Eve asked aloud. “What will you do?”

There was a sharp knock on her door, then Peabody shoved it open. “You didn't call me in. I heard it on the goddamn screen.”

“I need you tomorrow. I need you fresh.”

“Bullshit.”

Eve sat where she was, though a low vibration had begun to hum in her blood. “Crossing a line, Detective.”

“I'm your partner. This case is mine, too. I knew those guys.”

“I'm also your lieutenant, and you're going to want to be careful before you end up with an insubordinate in your file.”

“Fuck my file. And fuck you, too, if you think I give a rat's ass about it.”

Slowly, Eve rose out of her chair. Peabody's chin jutted out, her jaw clenched--and so did her fists. “Going to take a shot at me, Detective? You'll be on your ass and bloody before you finish the swing.”

“Maybe.”

In all the time they'd worked together, Eve had seen Peabody pissed, hurt, sad, and ready to rumble. But she'd never seen her boiling with all of it. A choice had to be made, and quickly. Plow in, step back.

And just as quickly, Eve decided to do neither. Her eyes stayed steady, her stance at the ready. “You're beautiful when you're angry.”

There was a blink, then two. “Dallas--”

“All hot and steamy. If I went for girls, I'd jump you right now.”

There was a tremble along the jaw that rippled into a reluctant smile. And just like that, the crisis passed.

“I didn't call you in for the reasons I just told you. Plus this one.” Her hand snapped out, fast as a flicked whip and connected with Peabody's ribs.

Peabody's breath sucked in, and her face lost all color--until it came back with a faint tinge of green. “That was just mean. Even for you.”

“Yeah, and telling. You're not a hundred percent yet. You don't get your downtime, you're no good to me.” Eve crossed to the AutoChef, ordered up a bottle of water as Peabody leaned against the desk and got her breath back. “I can't afford to worry about you, and I am. I don't like seeing you hurting.”

“That nearly makes up for the punch in the ribs.”

“The fact that you called that tap a punch ought to tell you something.” She handed Peabody the water. “You nearly died.”

“Well, Jesus, Dallas.”

“You nearly died,” Eve repeated, and it was partner to partner now, a unity tighter than most marriages. “I was afraid you would. Sick and afraid.”

“I know,” Peabody replied. “I get that.”

“I cleared you to come back because medical said you could handle light duty. This isn't turning out to be light. I'm not taking you off this case because I know if I were in your shoes--which would never happen, as I'd have to be beaten unconscious before you'd get those pink airboots on my feet--”

Peabody's lips twitched. “Salmon.”

“What, you're hungry?”

“No.” Peabody took another sip of water and laughed, then winced and rubbed her ribs. “The shoes. The color's salmon.”

“More the reason. I'm really going to wear fish shoes. So--God, what was I saying?”

“You're not taking me off because ...”

“Because if it were me, the job's going to take my mind off the fact I nearly got taken out.”

“It does. I've woken up sweaty a few times the last weeks, which has nothing to do with mattress dancing with McNab. But it's getting better. I'm getting better. I need to work.”

“Agreed. In addition to the above reasons, I didn't call you in tonight because ...”

She reached past Peabody to close the door. “... I sent them in. Knight and Preston. I knew them, too, and I sent them in, and now they're dead. I had to deal with that first, on my own. Now I have, so let's get to work.”

Peabody sat. “I wasn't mad at you. Well, yeah, I was, but it was easier to be mad at you, to let it center there, than ...”

“I know that, too. Get some coffee.”

“Hey, you actually offered me coffee.”

“I meant get some coffee for me, but you can have some, too.”

Peabody pushed up, went to the AutoChef. While she programmed, she studied the board. “What have we got?”

It didn't take long to brief her.

“Have you got a copy of the 'link transmission? I'd like to hear it.”

Eve took out a disc, plugged it in, called up the recording.

While it played, Peabody sipped coffee. “It's off--just a little, but it's close. The way it says, 'I'm aware of that,' when he questions you contacting him on the house 'link. I'd have known it wasn't you, but he doesn't talk with you every day, so yeah, he'd have bought it. Initially. Then, give him another ten seconds, and he's going to think: blocked video, you never addressed him by name or rank, and you don't do drone work. You wouldn't be the one to contact all the plants and inform. You'd be too busy with the suspects.”