Connections in Death (In Death #48)(32)

“I could lean there. But . . .” She pulled to the curb near Banger HQ. “Pickering strikes as personal. So he’s turned his back on the gang,” she added as they got out of the car. “And that might earn a slap, a threat, or a beating followed by derision, not a hit. He went inside and didn’t name names, didn’t give up his gang family. That earns serious cred. You’d think enough to buy him safety.”

At the door, she repeated the secret knock. The one who opened it gave her the hard eye. “Got a warrant?”

Not as easy a mark as the one the night before, Eve calculated. More muscle than fat, a tat of a snake coiling over his shaved head. And a look of at least average intelligence in that hard eye.

“We need to talk to Slice.”

“He ain’t receiving visitors today. Especially cunt cops.”

“Why don’t you let him know Lieutenant Dallas is here, see what he says?”

“Fuck you.”

When he started to shut the door, she slammed her shoulder against it. The force, and the surprise, took him back a couple steps. She didn’t figure that would last.

“Fine. I’ll just tag the PA’s office for that warrant. My partner and I will take a stroll around the block.”

“A nice day for a stroll,” Peabody added.

“Yeah. And when we get back, we’ll haul Marcus Jones—that’s Slice, by the way—into Cop Central, for an interview on suspicion of murder. Two counts.”

“Bullshit, bitch.”

She pulled out her ’link, keyed in. “Yeah, Reo,” she began as she strolled away. “I need a warrant. Actually two,” she continued, letting her voice carry back. “The first a search and seizure.”

“Try it, bitch!” he called out. “You’ll end up bloody.”

Deliberately, she stopped, turned back to face the door guard. “Make that three. Might as well have one ready for obstruction and assault on a police officer. What’s your name, asshole?”

“Fuck you!”

He slammed the door.

“So, Reo.”

“I’m barely into my first cup of at-the-office coffee,” Reo complained. “And somebody’s already yelling fuck you.”

“Well, I’ve got two bodies in under twelve hours, had a trip to the underground, and I’m currently exchanging insults with the door guard at the Banger HQ in the Bowery.”

“Okay, you win.” Reo, a classy blonde and fierce litigator with a hint of magnolia rolled her eyes. “You’re looking to search and seize at Banger HQ? And anticipating an altercation?”

“It might come to that. Let’s give it a minute. So . . .” Eve dug for small talk. “How are things?”

On the ’link screen, Reo stared. “You’re asking me ‘how are things’?”

“I’m killing a minute. It’s the small talk. I say, how are things. You say, good or they blow. I say, great or, gee, that sucks. Then you say how about you, and I say—Never mind,” she finished when Jones opened the door. “Minute’s DOA. I’ll tag you back.”

He stood in black baggies, bare chested and barefooted, with annoyance simmering in sleep-clouded eyes.

“The fuck you want now?”

“Dinnie Duff’s dead. We can talk about that out here, in there, or down at Central. Pick, and now.”

“How’s she dead?”

“Pick,” Eve repeated. “Now.”

“Shit.” He rubbed a hand hard over his face. “Gimme five.”

When he shut the door, Eve glanced at her wrist unit. “If he goes over five, tag Reo back, get her started on the warrants.”

“You know he’s probably having illegal substances, weapons and other questionable items scooped and moved out the back.”

“If he has brains he did at least some of that last night after our conversation. Right now, he needs to get dressed because he doesn’t want to talk about Duff inside, or out on the street. He sure as hell doesn’t want me to pin his ass in Central.”

“What’s his other choice?”

“We’ll see.”

“Okay.” Peabody waited a beat. “So, how’s it going?”

Eve couldn’t stop the quick laugh. “Better way to kill the five, dig into Duff, find out next of kin for notification. Movement at a couple windows on the second level—third’s boarded, but we’ve got a couple people awake enough to watch us out here.”

“Slice works out. He’s got a mag bod going. I don’t think much of the one-armed tat sleeve personally.”

“This is why small talk is useless and annoying.”

“Not entirely. I also noted his gang tat’s the same design and in the same place as the one Pickering was having removed—even while admiring his six-pack abs.”

“Okay, that earns you a point.”

“Duff has a mother in Jersey City, age forty-eight, domestic worker. And a father in Attica, a lifer. They didn’t make it legal. One sib, male, age twenty-six with an Atlanta address—employed at a construction firm, same father listed.”

“We’ll go with the mother.”

“No criminal there. Father’s a bad seed, in and out, and now in for good this time for aggravated assault. Looks like the brother had some issues as a juvenile, got straightened out. He’s been in Georgia for eight years, employed at the same firm for the last five. No recent bumps.