Connections in Death (In Death #48)(6)
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.”
“Jabbed at her with it,” Santiago added. “So we add that to the charges even though he fell on his face.”
“Tripped over his own feet. Blood on the sticker matches the vic. Asshole confessed in under ten in interview, claiming he had to kill the guy because he was overcharging. It was a matter of principle.”
“So it’s wrapped.”
“And tight,” Carmichael agreed. “Mope’s got a sheet as long as your legs. Just got out after doing a nickel for assault. Add all that, he’s in for life this time around.”
“Good work.”
“LCs did most of it. You’re in early. Something up?”
“Paperwork.” Eve started to step back, get to it, then frowned at Santiago. “I thought you played ball, not the . . .” She wiggled her fingers over imaginary keys.
“Both. I wanted baseball—practically lived for it. So the ’rents said, No problem, play all you want. As long as you keep your grades up, stay out of trouble, and take a year of piano lessons from your aunt. My aunt’s a pain in the ass, so striking the deal showed I wanted ball. Turned out I liked the music, too, so I stuck with it.”
“Now you’re a cop.”
“A base-running, keyboard-smoking cop who got to jam with Avenue freaking A.”
“And you sing,” she said to Carmichael.
“I kill when I can get to open mic night. And now I’ve sung duets with Mavis and Jake. Big night, right, partner?”
Santiago rapped his mug to hers. “Hey, we should start a cop band. Call it The Badge.”
Eve retreated.
In her quiet office she programmed coffee from her AutoChef, then settled down at her desk. Because cop work wasn’t only about locking up assholes who killed over happy poppers, she dug into schedules, requisitions, reports, budgets. The budget part required more coffee, but she felt she’d made solid headway before she heard Peabody’s clomping stride heading toward her door.