Promises in Death (In Death #28)(38)

“Hey, skinny white girl.”

“Hey, big black guy.”

His wide, homely face broke into a grin. He reached across the bar with arms as long as Fifth Avenue, lifted her off her feet, and slapped his mouth noisily to hers.

“Come on” was all she could say.

“Can’t help it. I missed seeing your face, plus I thought about you just this morning. How about that?”

“Yeah, how about that. How’s it going, Crack?”

“Be up, be down. Mostly be up these days. I went by the park this morning, like I do once in a while, to take a look at the tree you had planted for my baby girl. My baby sister. It’s greening up. Makes me feel good to see how it’s getting green.”

His expression changed from pleasant to dangerous, like a flick of a switch, when someone dared to approach the bar for service while he was otherwise engaged.

The customer slunk away.

They called him Crack, it was well known, for his habit of cracking skulls together—be they employee or patron—if their behavior displeased him.

“Whatchu doing in my place?”

“I’ve got a meet, and I wanted to have it in private.”

“You want a room?”

“Not that kind of private.”

“Good to hear. I like your man. I hope he be up.”

“Roarke being up is never a problem.”

Crack’s laughter was like a thunderclap.

“Anyway, I thought I could take the meet here, and not run into another cop. If that’s not a problem for you.”

“You want, I’ll kick these ass**les out of here, close the place down, and you can have it to yourself as long as you want.”

“Just a table, thanks.”

“Drink?”

“Do I look suicidal?”

“Got some bottled water in the back.” His gaze tracked away from her. “You don’t wanna see other cops, you got a problem, ’cause one of your kind just came in.”

She nodded, spotting Webster. “It’s okay. That’s my meet.”

“Take any table you want.”

“Thanks.” She walked toward Webster, then gestured toward a corner table, and kept walking.

It was always a little awkward, dealing with him, she admitted. Not because she’d bounced with him once, when they’d both been detectives working Homicide. But because he’d taken the bounce a lot more seriously than she had.

More awkward yet as, years after, he’d lost his mind apparently and put a move on her. One Roarke had walked in on even as she’d been deflecting it. The two of them had gone at each other like a couple of crazed wolves, wrecked her home office and caused each other considerable bodily damage before Roarke had knocked Webster unconscious.

They’d come to terms, she reminded herself. She and Roarke, Roarke and Webster, she and Webster, whatever.

Still. Awkward. And that was before you added the sticky layer of Internal Affairs.

Webster, a good-looking man with sharp eyes, scanned the room, then sat—like Eve—with his back to the wall. “Interesting choice of venue.”

“Works for me. I appreciate you meeting me.”

“Aren’t we polite?”

“Don’t start with me.”

He shrugged, leaned back. “Can we get coffee in this place?” “Sure. If you’ve got a death wish.”

He smiled at her. “Does Roarke know you’re meeting me in a sex joint?”

“Webster, I’d as soon nobody knows I’m meeting IAB anywhere, anytime.”

And leaning against the wall, his back went up. “We’ve all got a job to do, Dallas. If you didn’t need IAB, we wouldn’t be here.”

Since he had a point, she didn’t argue. “I need to know if IAB has any connection to or any interest in my investigation of Detective Amaryllis Coltraine’s murder.”

“Why would you ask?”

“Yes or no, Webster.”

“Have you uncovered any evidence or are you pursuing any line of investigation that indicates there is or should be IAB involvement?”

She leaned forward. “Fuck that. A cop’s dead. Try to care a little.”

He mirrored her move. “Fuck that. If I didn’t care I wouldn’t be IAB.”

“Give me a yes or no to my question, I’ll give you a yes or no to yours.”

He leaned back again, studying her. Calculating, she knew, how to handle it. “Yes.”

The knot in her belly twisted, but she nodded. “Yes. I need to know if she was dirty, Webster.”

“Can’t tell you. Can’t tell you,” he repeated, pointing a warning finger when her eyes fired, “because I don’t know.”

“Tell me what you do know. Quid pro quo,” she added. “I’ll reciprocate, with the stipulation we both keep this conversation off our records, unless both agree otherwise.”

“I can do that. You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t already made the connection between Coltraine and Alex Ricker. Is he a suspect?”

“He is. I don’t have enough, or much of anything on him. But I’m looking. IAB’s been on her since Atlanta, then?”

“The bureau down there got a tip she was involved with Ricker.”