Judgment in Death (In Death #11)(99)

"Who's with her?" Roarke asked, though he already knew. It was just like her.

"With her? Oh, ah, hmmm. Webster."

Silence fell, a clatter of broken bricks. Peabody folded her hands in her pockets and prepared for the explosion to follow.

"I see." When Roarke simply turned back to the screen and continued, she didn't know whether to be relieved or scared to death.

Webster resisted, barely, making some smart comment about the sleek luxury car and instead settled in to enjoy the ride.

Or tried to, but his nerves were jumping.

"Okay, let's just get this out of the way. I'm not Ricker's man in IAB. I guess I figured there had to be one, but I don't have a line on it. I will have. I'm going to make a point of it."

"Webster, if I thought you were hooked to Ricker, you'd still be back at Central, crawling over the floor trying to find what was left of your teeth."

It made him smile. "That means a lot to me."

"Yeah, yeah, save it."

"So... I went into your files. You can kick me about that later if you want. I had your code and password. Bayliss dug it out. I didn't have any right to and blah, blah, but I did it. I followed your line on Clooney. It was good work."

"You expect me to blush and say aw, shucks? You try that crap again, and I'll have you up, toothless, before the review board."

"Fair enough. You didn't get a warrant."

"That's right."

"What you got's thin, but it spreads enough that a judge Would've issued."

"I don't want a warrant. He's entitled to a little consideration."

"Bayliss hated cops like you." Webster looked out at New York, the jam of it, crowded, colorful, arrogant. "I'd forgotten what it was like to work this way. It's not something I'm going to forget again."

"Then listen up, here's how we do it. Clooney's living on the West Side. It's an apartment. He moved out of his house in the burbs a couple months after his son died. Hang a busted marriage on Ricker while you're at it."

"It's the middle of shift. He's not going to be home."

"You didn't finish his file. It's his day off. If he's not there, we knock on doors until somebody tells us where he might be. And we go find him, or we wait. I do the talking. He's going to come in voluntarily. That's the way we're going to make it happen."

"Dallas, he's killed three cops."

"Five. You didn't finish my notes, either. You're slipping, Webster. A thorough cop is a happy cop."

She found the address, started to double-park, then remembered she not only had Roarke's snappy sedan, but didn't have her On Duty light.

Cursing under her breath, she cruised until she found a parking slot. Two blocks down and one level up.

"It's a secured building," she noted, nodding toward the security cam and code box. "We bypass it. I don't want him to have time to get ready for us."

Webster opened his mouth to remind her of the lack of warrant. Then closed it again. It was her show, after all.

She used her master, keyed in her badge number. A more sophisticated system would have requested her to state her police emergency, but this one simply unlocked the outer doors.

"Fourth floor," she told him, heading inside and to the single elevator. "You carrying?"

"Yeah."

"I wasn't sure you guys in IAB carried anything but a data book. Keep your weapon harnessed."

"Well hell, I was looking forward to going through the door blasting. I'm not a moron, Dallas."

"IAB, moron. IAB, moron. I can never tell the difference. But enough of this frivolity. Stand back," she ordered when they reached the fourth level. "I don't want him seeing you through the peep."

"He may not open the door for you."

"Sure, he will. He wonders about me." She pressed the buzzer on the side of the door. Waited. She felt herself being observed, kept her face blank.

Moments later, Clooney opened the door. "Lieutenant, I wasn't -- " He broke off when Webster shifted into the doorway. "I wasn't expecting company."

"Can we come in, Sergeant, and speak to you?"

"Sure, sure. Don't mind the mess. I was just making a sandwich the old-fashioned way."

He stepped back, casual, easy. A good, smart cop, she thought later. That's why she missed it.

He brought up the knife fast, a smooth, quick motion, aimed at her throat. She was a good, smart cop, too. She might have dodged it. It was something she'd never know for certain.

Webster shoved her, hard enough to knock her off her feet, and the movement, the twist of his body put him in the path of the knife.

She shouted something as the blood spurted. Something as Webster went down. And was already scrambling to her knees, already reaching for her weapon as Clooney sprinted across the room. If she'd fired without warning, fired into his back, she would have had him. The instinctive hesitation, the ingrained loyalty, cost her an instant.

And he was out the window and clambering down the fire escape.

She rushed to Webster. His breathing was short, shallow, and the blood was coming fast from the long slice that ran from his shoulder down across his chest.