Connections in Death (In Death #48)(84)

“You sticking?” he asked as she started up.

“I just want a walk-through,” she said, knowing if she said she was sticking, he’d stick, too.

“Okay. Catch you in the A.M. Nice haul, boss. Damn nice haul.”

She’d consider it a nice haul when she charged three people with murder.

She found Jenkinson and Reineke, the latter with his own bloodied lip. As she talked to them, Roarke wandered. Baxter wasn’t wrong about the sty. Beyond the broken furniture, the toppled tables, glasses, and chaos of what had obviously been a nasty fight, lay the smell of unwashed bodies and clothing, stale sex, the Zoner smoke that had penetrated the walls over the years.

He’d had his times, Roarke thought, in places not much better. In some considerably worse. But even in those days had kept those visits brief. Summerset had ingrained standards into him, he supposed.

He took a scan of what he assumed to be Jones’s bedroom. Cleaner than the flops and with a decent bed. As he hadn’t sealed up, Roarke took care not to touch anything. He stood outside the closet, noted the clothes were newer, better, more plentiful—and used an elbow to move some aside.

Then he wandered back again to Eve.

“I believe you’ll find a false wall in the closet. Jones’s bedroom closet. And, no, I didn’t touch it,” he said, anticipating her.

“Somebody get me a kit!” she ordered, then headed for the bedroom.

In the closet she saw what Roarke had seen—a seam in the wall that had no place there, and a small keypad lock.

She grabbed the kit Reineke hustled in to her, sealed up. After a quick debate passed the can to Roarke.

“Seal up, open it. No point in calling in Marley when you’re right here.”

“Try eighteen, twelve, nine, three, five.”

“Why?”

“His name. Slice. They’re barking morons, Eve. Try the numeral equivalent of his street name.”

She did, and the lock disengaged. The door slid, shakily, into its pocket. Inside a mini D and C all but filled the small space.

“Barking morons,” she agreed. “What do you bet his records—all his side deals, the Banger business—it’s all on there?”

“I’d bet quite a bit on that.”

“Reineke, tag this for EDD, and let the sweepers know to check for other panels, other false walls. This one is priority. Then you and Jenkinson can go home. Seven-thirty briefing in the morning.”

Energized, she went straight up to the shielded room, and found Detectives Carmichael and Santiago.

Carmichael, hands on hips and sporting a black eye, looked on while Santiago with blood on his shoes, manhandled a shelf away from the wall.

“Let me give you a hand there,” Roarke began, but Carmichael waved him off.

“He got manly, bet me he could move it himself.”

“Christ, Santiago.” Eve could only shake her head. “You’ve got a problem.”

“I can do this.”

The shelf shuddered, squealed against the floor—which showed scars from previous shifts.

“You can see they’ve got setups for making false IDs,” Carmichael continued as her partner struggled. “We already tagged the comps for EDD. We spotted the marks on the floor. Hell, a drunk, one-eyed rookie would’ve spotted them. So we figure, being detectives, there’s something behind the shelf unit.”

“Almost got it,” Santiago claimed between gritted teeth.

“Speaking of eyes.” Roarke took an ice patch out of his pocket.

“Hey, thanks.” Carmichael cracked it, laid it against her eye. “You carry these around?”

“Tonight I do.”

“Got it. See?”

Carmichael peered out of one eye. Grunted. “Huh! Big! Strong!”

Santiago just flicked his middle finger against his chin. “Keypad here.”

Eve stepped to it. “It wouldn’t be ‘Slice’ this time. This is for the gang, not Jones personally. Simple code the people authorized could remember. “‘Fist’? That’s their symbol.”

When she started to count on her fingers, Roarke rattled the numbers off.

“Six, nine, eighteen, nineteen. I’ve . . . played with codes in my time. It’s a basic one.”

And correct, Eve thought as the lock disengaged.

This panel opened out, and led to a reasonably organized storage space. Illegals in one section, ID supplies in another, a few wrapped stacks of cash, electronics—mostly tablets and PPCs, and likely stolen—a cache of weapons and jewelry, wrist units.

“Can’t be more than five or six thousand street value on the illegals,” Santiago commented. “Might be for personal use, or quick street sales.”

“They’ve got another place for storing and distribution. The feds have that. This? This is like a pool. Everybody puts in, and the lieutenants pass out shares when needed.”

“Stupid,” was Carmichael’s take. “Even a half-assed raid would find this. And we’re going to find prints, DNA. The assholes are going into a cage because they’re not smart enough to cover their assholes.”

“I think they used to be smarter. Tag it,” Eve added. “And go home. Briefing at seven-thirty. Santiago, is that your blood on your shoes?”