J. Robb - Treachery in Death

“You follow orders. Did you consider Garnet a partner or a senior detective?”

“He was both. Now he’s neither.”

“Did you get along with him?”

“I didn’t have any problem with him.”

“Friendly, were you?”

“I didn’t have a problem with him,” Bix repeated.

“You had no problem with the fact that your partner and squad mate used illegal substances? The same substances you are assigned to get off the streets.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“Don’t know anything about that,” Eve repeated. “You’re either lying or stupid. I’m going for lying as nobody stupid enough not to recognize when their partner’s riding up would make it to detective, and sure as hell wouldn’t make it in Illegals.”

“Think what you want.”

“Oh, I do. I think Garnet had been screwing up lately. I think he pushed at Keener.” She nudged the photos across the table. Bix barely gave them a glance. “Had to be a reason for Keener to move out of his flop and go into a hole. Had to be a reason for somebody to dig him out long enough to kill him. It’s a screwup, losing a weasel that way, especially the boss’s weasel. Then he screws up and illegally enters Keener’s flop, conducts—with you—an illegal search. When he’s called on it, he goes off on a superior—embarrassing his own and earning a rip. But he’s not done screwing up yet. He then gets high and goes after me to the point of drawing his weapon.

“Must know he’s cooked then,” Eve added. “So he finds a drinking buddy—another squad mate, but not his partner. Then he goes back to my crime scene, breaks my seal, enters, and ends up with his throat slit.”

Bix said nothing.

“I think when somebody screws up that large in that short amount of time, the man who works with him knows something about it. I think when a cop’s partner develops an illegals habit, the partner—who one assumes is trained to recognize this—knows something about it.

“What did your partner know about Keener’s murder, Bix?”

“You could ask him.” The tiniest hint of a smirk moved his lips. “But he’s dead.”

“Conveniently. You were military, right, Bix?” she said, opening another file.

“I served.”

“Weapons trained, combat trained. You know how to use a knife. Quick, silent kills—it’s an important skill.” She looked up. “Your parents were military also, and your older brother still is. It’s your heritage, so you understand the importance of following orders. When your LT gives you an order, do you follow it, Detective?”

“Yes.”

“Without exception? Without question?”

“Yes.”

“You respect your lieutenant?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re loyal to her?”

“Yes.”

“Garnet’s behavior, his actions, his lack of discipline, lack of respect reflect poorly on Lieutenant Oberman.”

“Garnet was responsible for himself.”

“You know how the chain of command works, Bix. You’ve lived your life in it. Garnet was a screwup, and that makes Lieutenant Oberman a screwup.”

That lit the first fire in his eyes. “She’s twice what you’ll ever be.”

“I admire loyalty, even misplaced. Garnet’s actions and behavior made your lieutenant look inept, made her look like a fool, showed her to be lacking the power of command to control her man or discipline him. Her own father is disappointed in her lack of leadership.”

“Commander Oberman’s time has passed. Lieutenant Oberman runs a tight and efficient unit.”

“Garnet makes her third man down since she took command. That’s not real tight in my book.”

“Homicide comes in after it’s done. Illegals works the street.”

“Oberman rides a desk,” Eve corrected, then shrugged. “Did Garnet ever brag about how he used to bang the boss?”

His eyes stayed cold, nearly blank, but his hands fisted on the table between them. “You deserve more than the couple slaps Garnet gave you.”

“Want to try your hand at it? He embarrassed her, he demeaned her, he ignored her directives and put her in the position of defending herself, her command. He jeopardized your squad, Bix. What do you do when your unit’s in jeopardy?” She bit off the words, spat them out. “What do you do when your lieutenant is under fire? What do you do?”

“What needs to be done.”

“Where were you at oh one hundred, when Garnet went down?”

“Home.”

“Where were you the night Keener was murdered?”

“Home.”

“What is your response when and if your lieutenant orders you to eliminate a threat?”

“Yes, ma’am.” His voice snapped like a salute. “When and how?”

“And if that order includes murder, do you question it? Do you hesitate?”

“I do not.”

“What did Keener have, what did he know, what had he done to make him a liability? Why did he have to be eliminated?”

Bix opened his mouth, closed it again. He squared his shoulders. “I have nothing more to say to you. If you want to question me further, it’ll be in the presence of my department rep.”

“That’s your right. Let it be noted that not once during this interview did Detective Bix address me as sir or by my rank. This disrespect will be included in his file. Just a little icing on the cake I’m baking,” she told Bix, then rose. “Interview end.”

HER LIEUTENANT AND BIX HAD BEEN GONE about ten minutes when Lilah saw her window. Four of the squad were in the field, Brinker off on one of his many lengthy trips to Vending or the bathroom. Sloan and Asserton sat at their desks plugging away at paperwork. Freeman and Marcell had just gone into the break room.

Lilah picked up a report from her desk, walked briskly to Renee’s door, shoved the master she’d palmed in and out of the slot. And walked inside. The minute she had the door closed, she stuck the report in her back pocket.

Five minutes, she told herself. Tops. Freeman and Marcell were bound to bullshit in the break room that long.

She hit the desk first, crouching down to the locked bottom drawer. And using the skill she’d learned from her doomed brother, picked the lock.

It shouldn’t have surprised her to find so many personal items the rest of the squad was denied. High-end—way high-end—face enhancements, a top-of-the-line VR unit with a collection of relaxation and sex programs.

She’d already judged Renee as useless and vain.

She ran her fingers under drawers, along their sides, checked for false bottoms. She found a little cash, but nothing over the line.

She closed the drawer, secured it again. Careful not to disturb Renee’s pristine organization, she riffled through others. Flipped through file discs, opened and scanned a memo book, an appointment book before moving on to the furniture, the counters, the windows.

She knew Renee had a hide in there. Knew it hid more than expensive lip dye and eye shadow, more than fancy imported perfume that sold for a paycheck an ounce.

Her gut told her she’d hit the time to bail—sweat had begun to trickle down the center of her back.

One minute more, she told herself, easing the seascape off the wall to check behind it, to examine its back, its frame.

The minute she replaced it, carefully adjusting it so it hung perfectly true, it struck her.

“You idiot,” she muttered. “You wasted those psych courses.”

She looked at the portrait of Commander Marcus Oberman, in full dress blues.

Too heavy to take off the wall on her own, she judged. Not unless she dragged the table under it out of the way to gain more leverage and a better angle.

She managed to get a hand behind the frame, ease it out an inch—and cursed herself for not thinking to bring in a penlight.