Promises in Death (In Death #28)(55)

She turned back. “The alibi’s too lame. I’ve been fighting that one. If he’d done it or had it done, he’d be covered. It’s not one of those psych things—the smug ‘if I’d known I’d need an alibi, don’t you think I’d have one.’ He’s too neat and tidy not to have one. I kept looking at him and looking at him because his name is Ricker. I’ve wasted time.”

“You haven’t, no. No more than you did last night at Morris’s. You’ve clarified. How could you not look at him, go through all the steps, pick at the pieces? He’s the most logical suspect.”

“Yeah, and that’s . . . Son of a bitch.”

“And just a half step behind you, I’ll ask who’d gain by putting Ricker in your sites as a murder suspect?”

“A competitor. Plenty of bad guys wouldn’t scratch their ass over killing a cop.”

“You’re such a comfort to me,” Roarke murmured.

“I’m smarter than the bad guys. Wasn’t I a half step ahead of you?”

“Only because I gave you the nudge. Still, it isn’t what I’d call an expert frame job.”

“Doesn’t have to be, obviously. I’ve had Ricker on the hot seat since. He had to break down his penthouse, relocate docs, equipment. Cost him time and trouble. You could probably find out if he’s got any hot deals cooking, something this inconvenience is going to tangle up.”

“I probably could.”

“And I’m right back to being focused on him.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “But he’s the only thing that makes sense—that connection is it. She didn’t have any cases with the kind of heat that turns to murder. Nobody in her building had anything going with her, anything against her we can find. And she was going out—that’s how it plays no matter how many times I run it through, turn it around. She was going out, armed. Whoever was on that stairwell was a bad guy or a cop. And a wrong cop’s worse than a bad guy.”

“Someone besides Alex with a cop in his pocket.”

“Could be. Yeah, it really could be. And if that’s how it goes, the cop has to be in her squad.”

“Back to IAB.”

“I’m thinking yes.”

“Well, have some breakfast first.”

“I’ll grab something. I should get in and . . . Crap. Damn it. My ride.”

“Have some breakfast,” Roarke repeated, “then we’ll deal with your transportation.”

Scowling, she jammed her hands in her pockets. “I lost my appetite thinking about those bastards in Requisitions.”

Roarke simply walked over and programmed her a ham-and-egg pocket. “Here, quick and easy.”

“I guess.” She took a sulky bite where she stood. “I’d get Peabody to offer personal sexual favors again, but they’re not going to buy that a second time. They’ll make me beg, then they’ll still give me the crappiest piece of junk in the junk pile. I could bribe Baxter to do it,” she considered.

“The personal sexual favors?”

“No, but . . . maybe. Requisition a new vehicle. Like he needs one. They like him. Except they already know it’s my ride.” Her tone turned bitter as cop coffee. “They have their spies everywhere.”

“This is a very thorny problem, Lieutenant. I think I can help you with it.”

“They’d give me the pick of the fleet if you offered them personal sexual favors. But I’m not going there. There have to be lines, there have to be limits. Besides, I’m a goddamn lieutenant.” She stuffed her mouth with ham and eggs and thin, warm bread. “I shouldn’t have to beg,” she muttered around the food. “I’m a boss.”

“You’re absolutely right. The bastards.” He slung an arm around her shoulders. “Let’s go downstairs. I think I may have a way around all this.”

“It’s not like I did anything. It’s wrecked, sure, but it was wrecked in the line. Fuckers.”

“I agree. Fuckers.”

The amusement in his tone was lost on her as she wallowed and stewed. “I hate playing it this way. It just gripes me. But I can’t get bogged down in this during an investigation. So, maybe you could come up with a couple of cases of prime brew, or VIP seats for the ball game. A really shiny bribe.”

“I could, no doubt. But let’s try this instead.”

He opened the front door.

In the drive sat a vehicle of dull and somber gray. Its lines were too practical, too ordinary for ugly—so the best it could claim was drab. It did boast some shiny bits of chrome that glinted hopefully in the morning sun.

“Peabody already took care of it?”

“No.”

She’d started to walk to it, struggling against the personal disappointment that it was much more humble in appearance than her old one—a lot more humble, so the shiny bits came off as pitiful as cheap lip dye on a homely woman. Then she stopped, frowned.

“Don’t tell me it’s yours. You don’t have anything this ordinary in your toy box.”

“It’s not mine. It’s yours.”

“You said Peabody hadn’t . . .” Now who was a half step behind? “You can’t buy my official vehicle.”