Treachery in Death (In Death #32)(31)

“I guess that’s fair. So, we’ll provide the chow.”

“That’s fair, too,” Feeney told her.

She walked out and headed for the Illegals division.

She made her strides brisk as she passed through the warren and angled off toward Renee Oberman’s squad. Engaged the recorder. She scanned the squad room, noted the case board, the assignments listed, the open cases, the closed ones.

Like any squad there was noise and movement, the tap of fingers, the beep of ’links, but it was muted—more to her mind like a droid office pool than a cop shop. And unlike her division every cop at a desk wore a suit. Nobody worked in shirtsleeves, and every man wore a tie. The smell was off, too, she decided. No hint of processed sugar or burned coffee.

No personal clutter either, mixed in with the files and disks, the memo cubes—not even in the cubes where a couple of uniforms worked.

A female detective with a short crop of curls and toffee-colored skin swiveled in her chair. “Looking for somebody?”

“Your boss. Lieutenant Dallas, Homicide. I need to speak with Lieutenant Oberman.”

“She’s got somebody in with her. Shouldn’t be long.” The detective wagged a thumb at the wide window and door—both with the blinds down and closed.

“I can wait. Any problem letting her know I’m here?”

“No, ma’am.”

“It’s sir in my unit.”

“Sir. Hold on.” Rather than go to the office, the woman tapped the keys of her interoffice com—added, Eve noted, the privacy mode. “Lieutenant, pardon the interruption. There’s a Lieutenant Dallas from Homicide here to see you. Yes, ma’am. One minute,” she said to Dallas. “Coffee in the break room if you want it.”

“I’m good, but thanks, Detective—”

“Strong.”

“Quiet in here,” Eve commented. “And clean.”

“Lieutenant Oberman commands an orderly space.” The detective added a small, humorless smile, then went back to work on her comp.

A moment later the office door opened. Eve recognized Garnet as he came out. “You can go right in,” he told her. “Bix, we’re rolling.”

As she crossed the room, Eve noticed a big blond rise from his desk, check the knot of his tie before following Garnet out.

Then she entered the sanctum.

It was the word that came to mind. The desk was wood, deeply grained, highly polished. It held a top-flight data and communication center, an engraved nameplate, and a small white vase of pink and white flowers. A mirror in a slim frame and a painting—some moody seascape—rode the walls in a space that tripled Eve’s office.

And dominating it on the wall across from the desk stood a full-length portrait of Commander Marcus Oberman standing militarily straight in dress blues.

Eve wondered how it felt to have him watch her every move—and why she’d chosen to.

Renee rose—a crisp white shirt under a fitted jacket with tiny black-and-white checks, the shining blond hair sleeked back into an intricately braided knot at the nape. Jet earrings dangled, and one of the pink and white flowers graced her lapel. When she skirted the desk to greet her, Eve noted Renee wore high black heels.

“Lieutenant Dallas, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” Renee extended a hand, her bright blue eyes smiling. “I’m sure you know your reputation proceeds you.”

“Likewise, Lieutenant.”

“Please, have a seat.” She gestured to one of the two plush black visitor’s chairs. “Can I get you some coffee, or something cold?”

“No, thanks. I wish I was here under better circumstances, Lieutenant, but I have to inform you one of your CIs is dead.”

“One of mine?”

“From what I found in his file, I have to assume Rickie Keener, aka Juicy, was yours.”

Eve let that hang while Renee walked back around her desk, sat. Calculating, Eve thought, but she had to figure it’s smarter to admit it, acknowledge it.

“Yes, for a few years now. How did he die?”

“We’re working on that. Were you aware he used a hole off Canal?”

Angling her head, Renee frowned. “No. That’s his territory but not his flop. Is that where he was killed?”

“Looks that way, and it looks like he’d holed up there. Any reason you know of why he’d go to ground?”

“He was a junkie.” Leaning back in her desk chair, Renee swiveled slightly, side-to-side. “A lot of CIs are when you work Illegals. He might’ve had some trouble on the street, with a supplier, a customer.”

“He was still dealing?”

“Small-time. Mostly zoner, and low grade at that. It’s the sort of thing we have to offset against potential information with a resource. You know how it is.”

“Yeah, I do. When’s the last time you had contact with him?”

“Let me check my log.” She turned to her comp, began to tap as she spoke. “You don’t have COD?”

“He’s at the morgue, and I’ll be heading over there shortly.”

“I’d appreciate it if you could give me your opinion, or the basic facts. He was mine, after all.”

“Understood. It looked like an OD.”