Obsession in Death (In Death #40)(77)

Eve stopped on the steps, the cold snatching at the hem of her coat, to burn a stare back at Peabody.

“Okay, don’t toss me off the stairs. Everything you said to her was right. Everything. And you could’ve said more and worse and been right. But I feel sorry for her because she knows it, and she’s living with it.”

“You’re wasting your sympathy.”

“What I’m saying is she was good enough to get her detective’s shield, to close cases, maybe make a difference. And she tossed it, all of it, for a few thousand dollars.”

“Double that, minimum. She’s still lying, still justifying.”

On the street, Eve jammed her hands in her pockets because she actively wanted to punch something, someone – and her partner didn’t deserve it.

“And it’s not the money, it’s never just the money. It’s the idea you’re entitled to it. Some DB had a wad of cash on him, what’s he going to do with it? Hey, that’s a nice wrist unit, and he’s got no pulse, so I might as well have it. Shit, that was a big illegals bust, and I got a little bloody on it. The department’s just going to light it up, so what’s the harm if I take a chunk, sell it to some mope? I bust my ass, risk my ass, I deserve it. The first time you think that, do that, pocket something from a crime scene, dip into the pockets of a DB, you’re done. You’re finished, and rolling on cops as dirty as you won’t make you clean again.”

“She’ll never be what she wanted to be, could’ve been. She traded that for money. It doesn’t matter if it was ten dollars or ten thousand.” Peabody hunched her shoulders. “She knows it.”

Eve passed the harmonica player again. A jumpy tune now. She didn’t know how he had it in him to play something so insanely cheerful while he huddled in the cold.

She doubled back, dug into her pocket for what she thought of as her bribe cash, pulled out a fifty, crouched so he could see it, her badge, her eyes.

“Get a goddamn meal. If I find out you took this to the liquor store down the block, I’ll kick your ass. Got that? No,” she said when she saw Peabody reach in her own pocket. “This is enough – and you still owe me on payday. Got that?” she repeated to the sidewalk sleeper.

“’Preciate it.” He tucked the fifty into a fold of his coat.

“Get a meal,” she repeated.

Annoyed with herself – why not just light a match and burn the fifty? – she headed to the overpriced lot and her vehicle.

“Now I’m short till payday,” she muttered, and swiped her card, got the receipt for parking for her expense report.

“I’ll spring for lunch, if we get it. As long as it’s cheap.”

With a half laugh Eve stopped at a light. Then just lowered her head to the wheel a moment. “You weren’t wrong – about Tortelli. I can’t feel it, but you’re not wrong to. Fourth-generation cop, and she’s taking vids of some woman diddling her brother-in-law. You think, maybe they were all dirty along the way – that’s what she’s done, that’s the smear on her family legacy, and she knows that, too.”

“You weren’t wrong either. Her badge should’ve been worth more.”

The light changed; Eve drove.

“I can’t remember ever wanting to be anything but a cop. When I woke up in that hospital in Dallas, everything that happened blurry, or too bright to look at, the cops were there. They scared me some – he’d put that in me, how the cops would throw me in a dark hole with spiders. But they were careful with me, and nobody had been. The doctors, the nurses, they were careful, too, but I didn’t think how maybe they’d fix everything the way I thought about the cops. One of them brought me a stuffed bear. I’d forgotten that,” she realized. “How could I have forgotten that? Lost in the blur.”

She shook her head, made a turn. “I can’t remember ever wanting to be anything but a cop,” she repeated. “I’m betting it was the same for Tortelli. Maybe the difference is she thought it was her right, the badge was just her right. So she didn’t value it until she lost it.”

Though it involved another hunt for a street slot, and another overpriced lot, they tracked Hilda Farmer, formerly Officer Farmer out of the Twelfth Precinct, to a basement unit a few blocks from the bail bondsman she worked for.

Eve pressed the buzzer. Moments later, she saw the electronic peep – a costly addition to security – blink. Hearing the distinct eek! through the door, Eve brushed back her coat, laid a hand on the butt of her weapon.

Locks thudded, snicked, clunked, then opened.

The tall, curvy brunette said, “Dallas! Finally! Hey, Peabody, how’s it going? Come on in!”

“Hilda Farmer?” Eve glanced around the small, tidy living space serving as an office. No clunky equipment here. A pair of slick D&C units sat on a central workstation facing a trio of wall screens.

One of the screens displayed the photo and data of one Carlos Montoya, a hard-faced man with a thick mustache and scowling eyes.

“Skip I’m tracing.” Farmer waved a hand at the screen. “Spine breaker. Assault with a deadly. He beat some schmuck half to death with a ball bat because he couldn’t come up with the vig. Should never have made bail, you ask me, but if he hadn’t, I wouldn’t be working. Have a seat! I’ll make coffee. I’ve got some of your brand for special occasions.”