Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(52)

“Even the alibis rang the same. Out with friends, multiple, covering the entire evening. Smarter if one of them had a woman over, or a business meeting, some wider variation. But they’ve stuck with the same pattern throughout. And they’re smug. I don’t like smug.” She shrugged it off. “I’m about to report to Whitney. I wanted your take before I did.”

“What you’re theorizing is certainly possible. I would have to conclude that, if this is the case, the two men have a deep and strong level of trust or mutual need. If either one of them had failed or changed his mind, or otherwise impacted the partnership, the other would suffer the consequences as well.”

“Okay. I’ll look into that. Thanks.”

“Eve, if you’re right, they could be finished. Each has done their part.”

“No.” She thought of the sparkle in Dudley’s eyes, the hard, superior gleam in Moriarity’s. “No, they’re not finished. They think they’ve done their parts too well to be finished.”

Organizing her thoughts, Eve made her way to Commander Whitney’s office. She recognized the low throb behind her eyes as caffeine buzz warring with fatigue. Peabody wasn’t the only one who could use a little downtime.

She stepped off the glide, turned to switch to the next, barely registering the weeping behind her. Crying, cursing, whining, shouting were all ambient noise in a cop shop. But she caught the move, the man directly in front of her drawing a hand from his pocket. She saw the eyes, the baring of teeth, the hot rage.

She laid a hand on her weapon, shifted to block him.

The knife was out of his pocket before she could clear her weapon, and slicing out at her. She felt the sting of the tip across her forearm. Heard the weeping turn to high, terrified screams.

She said, “Goddamn it,” and kicked the assailant hard in the balls even as she yanked her weapon clear. “You son of a f**king bitch.”

Since he was curled on the floor, retching, he didn’t respond.

“Lieutenant. Jesus, Lieutenant, he cut you.”

“I know he cut me. I’m the one bleeding. Why is she screaming?” Eve demanded as she lowered, put a knee in the small of the retching man’s back, then restrained him. “Let me repeat: I’m the one bleeding.”

“He was going for her when you got in the way. Way it looks. Detective Manson,” he said, “Special Victims. The ass**le on the floor is her ex, who paid her a visit last night, beat the crap out of her, raped her, and told her he’d cut her heart out if she left. He went out for brew, she left. He must’ve trailed her here or something. We’ll find out.”

“How the hell did he get a knife through?” As she asked, Manson used a pair of tweezers to pick it up off the floor.

“Christ, it’s one of those plastic deals from the Eatery. He sharpened it with something. I’d say he was waiting out here to go at her. In goddamn Cop Central. Crazy bastard.”

“Get him the hell in a cage. Make sure you charge him with assault with a deadly on a police officer.” She crouched down to push her face close to the knifer’s. “You can get life for that, ass**le. Put in the other charges, and you’re done. You cost me a pretty nice jacket.”

“You need to go to the infirmary, sir.”

Eve looked down at the ripped sleeve, the blood. “Crap.”

Instead, she slipped into a restroom, ripped the sleeve off the jacket, and fashioned a quick field dressing. Then, with some regret as it had been a nice, serviceable jacket—shoved what was left of it in the recycler.

The steady pulse of pain from her arm joined the head throb. Home, she thought, as soon as she gave Whitney her report, she was going home, cleaning up, shutting down. Two hours’ sleep would do the trick.

At home.

At his desk when she walked in, Whitney held up a finger for silence as he finished reading a report. Eve stood where she was while behind his window a blimp lumbered through the sky with its flashing ad, a couple of shuttles zipped in a crisscrossing path, and a tram carried a payload of tourists.

Whitney tapped the index finger of his big hand on the screen, then shifted his eyes, dark, intense, to her.

“How were you injured?” he asked her.

“It’s just a scratch.”

“I asked how.”

“Sir. Some mope on the tenth level, east, lying in wait for his ex, who’d come in to SVU after he beat and raped her. He’d copped a plastic knife from the Eatery, sharpened it up. I got in the way. A Detective Manson has him in custody.”

“That’s not a proper dressing.”

“I’ll get one. I was on my way to give you my report, so—”

Again, he held up a finger, turned to his com to tag his admin. “Send a medic in here for the lieutenant. She has an injury, left forearm. Knife wound.”

“Sir, I really don’t need—”

“Report.”

“Sir.” Damn it.

She reviewed the facts, the steps taken, the various avenues of investigation addressed.

“You’ve yet to find any connection between the victims.”

“No, sir, we’ve found nothing that intersects them other than the killer.”

“And you believe both victims were killed by the same individual.”

“Detective Peabody and I have just completed first interviews with Winston Dudley and Sylvester Moriarity. I believe the result of those interviews opened another avenue of investigation. I consulted with Doctor Mira on the—”