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

“Where’s the mother?”

“Two residences—Palm Beach, Florida, and Bar Harbor, Maine. Married, seven years, to Humphrey Merkle, no offspring from that relationship. He’s loaded—founder of Bertinili’s Frozen Pizza.”

“That’s assembly-line shit.”

“And sells. They also do pastas and all that. Anyway, loaded.”

“So the Banger comes from money.”

“Well, he started off with it.” Digging, Peabody toggled and scrolled. “Everything went south when the father went down. They had to downsize, big time. Mom went to work for—ha!—Bertinili’s company, worked her way up the chain, and married the big guy. But by then, she’d spent considerable time dealing with the bad boy. Or not dealing—hard to say.”

“What kind of bad?”

“Since his juvie record’s already unsealed, I can tell you he’s got truancy, destruction of property, shoplifting, trespassing, possession of illegals, possession of a knife over the legal limit, and assault.”

Eyebrows lifted, Peabody glanced over at Eve. “That’s all before he hit thirteen.”

“That’s bad enough, and cruising toward worse.”

“Yeah. The mother actually tried a military school. He got kicked out. Then we’ve got more assaults, some B and E, illegals, more destruction of property, and so on. That’s just what stuck before sixteen.”

“Cruised to the worse,” Eve decided.

“And kept going. He’s got a rape charge in here that didn’t stick—victim recanted. Looks like he was already a Banger by that time.”

Peabody continued to scroll as Eve drove into the garage at Central. “Whoa. Dallas, he went after his mother—physical assault—and the sister kicked his ass. You go. Looks like he was about seventeen.”

“Let’s get the report on that. I want the details.”

“Will do. He’s done some stints. Been out now for about four years. Been hauled in a few times, but wiggled out.”

“Could be he wants a higher rank than he has, more power than he’s got. Let’s pull all we can on him.”

“Jesus, Dallas.” The beaming spring had brought on had dimmed by the time Peabody got in the elevator. “He beat on his own mother. What if the sister hadn’t been there to stop him? That’s more than bad boy. I mean if you’d punch your own mom—”

“Why quibble about killing your fuck buddy?”

A woman with a sweep of winter-white hair and a sour expression stepped on. “Language!” she snapped at Eve.

“Yes, ma’am, that was language.”

“Are you a police officer?”

“That’s right.”

She jabbed a long, red-tipped finger into Eve’s chest, repeatedly.

“Ma’am, I’m going to ask you to stop that.”

She jabbed again. “I pay your salary, young lady, and I don’t expect officers of the law to use such language.”

As she spoke, jabbing that finger, the doors opened on the next level and let in a pair of uniforms discussing the dickwad they’d just brought in.

The woman actually said, “Harrumph!” then stalked off the elevator.

“Must be her first trip to a cop shop.” Eve rubbed idly where that finger had tried to poke through flesh, and waited another level before jumping off.

“Get those reports on Jorgenson,” she said as they used the glides. “He’s not a big guy—and the wit’s firm on that. Unlikely, if he’s involved, he’s one of the three who killed Lyle. As an LT, he’d probably have access to the illegals stash, be able to cut out enough to take Lyle out, to plant the rest.”

“To pass the junk to Dinnie, too.”

“Yeah, he’s a definite possibility.”

“Could he do all that without Jones knowing?”

Eve replayed the visit to HQ, and Jorgenson’s reactions. Pushing Jones, pushing at him to stand up, to strike back.

“That’s something else to find out.”

In her office, Eve hit routine. Coffee, updating board and book. Then she sat, boots on desk, coffee in hand, for some thinking time.

The evidence, and every instinct, said both murders came through the Bangers with Lyle Pickering as the primary target. The method, the setup on Pickering read as an attempt to mask murder with accidental overdose. An addict surrendering to old habits.

That method also read personal grudge. Easier to jump him on the street one night after a late shift, if taking him out was the only goal.

The why of taking him out, Eve mused. Gang pride? He’d cut himself off from his “family,” even started the process of removing his gang tat.

Not enough, she thought. Enough for a beatdown, possibly, but not enough to kill. Or to spend so much valuable product in the cover-up attempt.

But more than enough, she considered, if someone in the gang discovered Pickering’s connection to Strong.

And yet, wouldn’t that rate a beatdown, a serious beatdown, followed by an execution? Not a relatively tame OD?

He’d betrayed that family, worked with the enemy. And for that, death—but in this case a relatively painless one.

Because the cover-up rated as high, or possibly higher, than the crime?