The music blasted over New York. Eve decided if anyone called a cop over noise violations, they’d find a whole bunch of them busting that reg, including her entire squad, a chunk of EDD—and the commander.
At the moment, Commander Whitney was dancing with Assistant Prosecuting Attorney Cher Reo. A lot of shoulder shaking and hip rocking was involved. Her partner, Detective Delia Peabody, executed some sort of wild swing and hop in time with her main man and EDD ace McNab.
Baxter, slick suit, no tie, flirted with the terrifying Trina, which was no problem as Detective Horndog flirted with any and all females. Reineke and Jenkinson clicked glasses as they joined in on the chorus of whatever girl duet Detective Carmichael and Mavis belted out.
It seemed Carmichael did indeed have pipes. And Jenkinson’s tie glowed like the moons that covered it.
Standing spread-legged, Santiago ran his fingers over a keyboard. What came out was definitely music. Who knew? Trueheart, Baxter’s earnest young partner, sat with his girlfriend and Feeney. Eve swore Feeney’s eyes shone—or glowed like Jenkinson’s tie—as he watched the Avenue A drummer bang and crash the drums.
She spotted Garnet DeWinter. The forensic anthropologist huddled in conversation with the commander’s wife while Morris made his sax wail.
EDD Callendar rushed out on the terrace, giving a “Woo!” as she dragged a laughing Charles with her into the shaking bodies. Eve supposed dancing skills had once been a job requirement for the former licensed companion. Dr. Louise Dimatto, his wife, hooked an arm through Eve’s.
“I’d say this house is warmed.”
“It’s a heated terrace.”
“No.” On a laugh, Louise lifted her glass. “Housewarming, Dallas. This house is definitely warmed. So, who’s that stunning woman dancing with Crack?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.” Eve shrugged. “Kid shrink.”
“Really. I love her lip dye. If I tried that color I’d look like a zombie. Is that—That’s Detective Carmichael singing with Mavis.”
“Yeah. She has pipes.”
“I’ll say. Well, since Callendar stole my man, I’m going to steal someone else’s.” She circled a finger in the air. “Feeney,” she decided, and circled the dancers.
Roarke brought Eve another drink that washed away even the memory of zucchini. When they took the music down to slow and he turned her into his arms, she swayed with him under the swimming slice of moon.
Yeah, she thought, this house is warmed.
* * *
And if, on the drive home, she took out her PPC and did a quick little run on Rochelle Pickering, so what?
Roarke stretched out his legs in the back of the limo. “What are you up to there, Lieutenant?”
“Just checking something.”
He waited only a beat. “Don’t tell me you’re running Rochelle.”
“Okay.”
“Eve, Crack’s a big boy. Literally.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Eve,” he said again, and laid a hand on hers. “You should know I’ve already run her.”
“What? You’re not a cop, and—”
“And she’s not a suspect. She is, however, the top contender for the head therapist at An Didean.”
“I thought you had one of those already.”
“I did. She had a personal issue come up just last week, and is moving to East Washington to be with her son. I’m vetting the position again. Dr. Pickering was already a leading candidate when I went with Dr. Po.”
“Does she know that?”
“Unlikely. I can tell you she’s highly qualified, experienced, dedicated, comes strongly recommended. And has no criminal record.”
“That you found. Okay, okay,” she mumbled after his quiet stare. “If she had one, you’d have found it.” She shrugged with it. “Save me time then.”
“She’s the only daughter and second child. Three siblings. Her father did time—twice—for assault, for illegals. Her younger brother did time, as a juvenile, for theft, possession—and as an adult for the same. He belonged to the Bangers.”
“That’s bad business. Their turf’s narrowed, but they’re still bad business.”
“Most gangs are. He’s been out of prison two years—just—completed rehab, and by all accounts is clean, and no longer affiliated with the Bangers.”
Eve put that aside for later. Though the Bangers weren’t as big and bad as they’d once been, they didn’t just let go, either.
“Her father died in a prison incident when she was fifteen,” Roarke continued, “and her mother self-terminated shortly thereafter. From that point—and reading between the lines, to a great extent prior—they were raised by their maternal grandmother. They grew up in the Bowery,” Roarke added. “The roughest part of it.”
“Banger turf.”
“Yes. The oldest brother went to trade school, and has his own business—plumbing—in Tribeca. He’s married, has a three-year-old daughter and another child on the way. The youngest is in law school, Columbia, on scholarship. The middle brother’s been gainfully employed at Casa del Sol, Lower West Side, as a cook—a trade he apparently learned in prison—since he got out. He reports to his parole officer, attends regular AA meetings, and with his sister volunteers at a local shelter twice a month.”
“The Bangers don’t let go.”
“The Bangers are in the Bowery. Rochelle lives with her brother in a two-bedroom apartment in the Lower West, well outside their territory. She had a hard and difficult childhood—something you and I know a great deal about. She overcame. It’s hardly a coincidence she devoted her skills to the emotional welfare of children.”
She knew his tones, his inflections. Knew him.
“You’re going to hire her.”
“It strikes me as a happy twist of fate we happened to meet her tonight. I’d already planned to contact her Monday morning to set up an interview. If I’m satisfied after that, and she’s interested, I’ll offer her the position, yes.”
He shifted, trailed a finger down the shallow dent in her chin. “Unless you give me a solid reason not to.”
She hissed out a breath. “I can’t. I’m not going to knock her because one of her brothers was an asshole, because her father was another.”
Maybe it worried her a little. But Roarke had a point. Crack was a big boy.
2
To counteract the party, socializing, small talk, and fancy shoes, Eve had a quiet, off-duty Sunday. With no fresh murders landing in her lap, she spent the day sensibly. She slept late, banged Roarke like a hammer, ate crepes, took a three-mile virtual run on the beach, pumped iron until her muscles begged for mercy. To cap it off, she took a session with the master in the dojo, followed it up with a swim and pool sex.
Then she took a nap with the cat.
Afterward, she indulged herself with an hour on the shooting range—determined that next time she and Roarke went head-to-head there, she’d crush his fine Irish ass. Following a leisurely dinner by the fire, she snuggled up with that fine Irish ass and a bowl of butter-soaked popcorn to watch a vid where lots of stuff blew up.
To celebrate the end of a day without Dispatch butting in, she let Roarke bang her like a hammer. Then slept like a baby.
Refreshed, renewed, and feeling just a little guilty she’d chosen the nap instead of carving through her backlog of paperwork, she headed into Cop Central early on Monday.
Not early enough to avoid the snapping, snarling traffic or the average driver who lost any moderate skill behind the wheel due to a thin rain whipped by a blasting March wind. Still, she figured the nasty was just the thing to start off a day of cop work.
Plus, the ferocity of the wind grounded the ad blimps. It made a nice change to inch her way downtown without hearing the blasts about early spring sales and discounts on late winter cruises to wherever the hell.
Which was it, anyway? Early spring or late winter? Why couldn’t March make up its mind?
She could be an optimist and go with early spring. It wasn’t snowing or sleeting or shitting out ice. On the other hand, it was still freaking cold in that screaming wind, and those skies could decide to dump out snow anytime now.
Plu,s optimists usually got their faces rubbed in the dirt of disappointment.
Late winter it was then, she decided as she pulled into her slot in Central’s garage. She headed up, pleased to have a full hour before the change of shifts.
She found Santiago at his desk in the Homicide bullpen.
“Catch one?”
He looked up with tired cop’s eyes. “Yeah. Carmichael’s in the break room getting us some atomic coffee. Street LC picks up a john who wants a BJ. The transaction’s cut short when they move off to a doorway off Canal often used for same, and find a DB. John takes off, but the LC does her duty, finds a beat droid.”
“Who’s the DB?”
“Low-rent illegals dealer, and one who made considerable use of his own product. The LC recognized him from around the streets, and that she’d seen him arguing with a local junkie about an hour before when she came out of the flop she uses next door for more involved services. But she doesn’t know the junkie’s name. Anyway, we got pulled in.”
He glanced back as Detective Carmichael came out of the break room with two steaming mugs of cop coffee. “Ah yeah, my life for you.” Santiago snagged one, gulped some down. “When we got there, a couple of other LCs got in on it. They’re shooting the shit, and one of them pops up a name. He says he’s pretty sure the first LC means Dobber. Loser type, according to the wit, who moved in—the same damn building as the doorway—a couple months before.”
Santiago signaled for Carmichael to take over.
“So we leave the beat droids—we called in another—with the DB and the wit, head in to check out this Dobber. He’s in his flop, flying high on the happy poppers he took off the dealer after he stabbed him in the throat. Asshole’s still got the sticker, LT.”