Treachery in Death (In Death #32)(80)

“I can give you a statement on my whereabouts at TOD, if you tell me when TOD was.”

“Just after oh one hundred.”

“Okay. I was home, up, and still working. There’ll be a log of that on my comp. I can’t, at this time, give you the contents of the work. I can tell you Garnet was going to be dealt with tomorrow—today,” she corrected. “He was going to lose his badge and face criminal charges. You can confirm this with command. I wanted that a lot more than I wanted him dead.”

“Yeah,” Delfino said after a moment. “I’d like that better myself. Vic’s got some interesting trace on his right thumb and index finger.”

“I believe he made use of the product he was bound by duty to get off the streets. I believe I could have made a case on that. I believe he was a wrong cop—I know he was. But whatever he was, he’s your victim, and whoever slit his throat has to pay for it. I’ll give you all the information I’m authorized to give, as I’m authorized to give it.”

“Is he tied to your vic? To Keener?” Janburry asked.

“Short answer is yes. I’m not free to give you the long one. I’m not blocking you on this. It’s all I can tell you at this time.”

“Are there rats in the house?”

Eve nodded at Janburry, acknowledged IAB involvement.

He blew out a breath, said, “Shit. We’re still not passing the ball.”

“Understood. If I have any influence over the matter, I’ll do whatever blocking may be necessary to keep that ball in your hands.”

She watched the look that passed between the partners, and saw the tacit agreement.

“It reads like the victim entered, using a master. It was in his pocket. We’ll reverify the time the seal was broken, but at this point, given the read is so close to TOD they’re stepping on each other, we’d say the vic and killer entered together. Killer took him from behind—quick and dirty.”

“He had his back to the killer,” Eve said.

“That’s how it reads. Somebody punched me in the face a few hours ago, I’m not turning my back on them. Added to it, you’re a tall woman, Lieutenant, but not tall enough to have inflicted this wound at this angle unless you were standing on a box. We’ll take the comp log, the recording, and so on, but I can say Delfino and I aren’t looking at you for this.”

“Always good news. Did he have anything else on him?”

“The knife—still sheathed. Illegal length on the blade. Didn’t have a ’link, a wrist unit, a memo book, wallet. You might think, looking at it, it was some kind of deal that went bad. Killer took him out, grabbed what he could use or sell, and fled the scene. Left the door open.”

“You might think,” Eve agreed.

“I’d be interested in what you think,” Janburry told her.

Eve crouched down for a closer look at the body. No defensive wounds, she noted—and she could smell booze on him. She lifted his right hand—bagged now—by the wrist. No user would leave that much candy on his fingers. That, she thought, was overkill.

“I think he and his killer entered together. Why, I can’t say, but I’d bet my ass Garnet believed they were here to screw either with me or my investigation. He not only knew his killer, but trusted him. Walked in ahead of him, got his light out, turned it on. A slice like that?”

She wished she had her gauge, but eyeballed it.

“I figure the killer pulled Garnet’s head back, exposed the area—gives him a wide, clear target, makes a wide, clean slice. The killer came here for that purpose, and then took the ID and the rest so it might appear to be a meet gone bad, followed by a robbery of opportunity.

“Keener’s OD was staged,” she continued. “This is more of the same.”

Janburry crouched down, kept his voice low. “You think another cop did this.”

“I think people who kill for expediency, for profit, for any reason other than self-defense or in defense of another aren’t cops. They just have a badge in their pockets.”

“How much muck are we stepping into?”

“I can’t tell you—yet—but I’d bring spare boots.”

16

WHEN PEABODY AND MCNAB WALKED INTO EVE’S home office, McNab’s heart, mind, and body arrowed directly to the breakfast buffet.

“Morning eats! Told ya.”

“I just said you shouldn’t count on it.” Peabody shifted her file bag and wished the scent of grilled bacon didn’t wrap around her system like a lover.

But since it did, she dumped the bag and surrendered to temptation, crunching into the first slice as Roarke came in.

“Morning,” she managed. “Best briefings ever.”

“No point in solving murders on an empty stomach. You’re looking rosy this morning, Peabody.”

“It’s the bacon.”

“Woot! French toast.” McNab grinned as Roarke poured himself some coffee. “Thanks for the spread.”

“Feeding cops has its rewards.”

And this one, Roarke assumed, had the metabolism of a manic chipmunk to eat as he did and remain thin as a wafer.

“We got here a little early,” McNab told him, “so Peabody could help Dallas set up.”