J. Robb - Judgment in Death

It made him grin, and he slipped his hands into his pockets and wandered over to Roarke. "Hey. You doing a ride-along, too?"

"Apparently." Roarke had a low-grade urge for a cigarette, which annoyed him. "What's the story on Captain Roth?" When McNab started to shrug, Roarke smiled. "Ian, no one knows the gossip like an e-detective."

"You got that right. Okay, maybe we poked around a little when we heard about Kohli, seeing as he was hers. She's a hard-ass, eighteen years on, got a shit-pot load of busts under her belt, a slew of commendations, and a couple minor reprimands for insubordination. They came early on, though. Moved up the ranks, and took a lot of crap work to do it. Been captain under a year, and word is she's holding onto it by her fingernails since the Ricker case blew up under her."

They both glanced back to where Roth and Eve had squared off. "And that," Roarke said, "makes her touchy."

"Looks like. Had a little problem with alcohol a few years back. Did voluntary rehab before it became a big one. On her second marriage, and my source says it looks pretty shaky right now. She lives and breathes the job."

He paused a minute, watching Roth talk to Clooney. "You want my take, she's territorial and competitive. Probably have to be to wear captain's bars. Losing two men stings. Having another cop handle the cases is going to eat at her. Especially when it's a cop with a rep like Dallas."

"And what would that rep be?"

"She's the best there is," McNab said simply. He smiled a little. "Peabody wants to be her when she grows up. Speaking of Peabody, I just wanted to say how that advice you gave me-you know about the romance angle-it's working pretty good."

"Glad to hear it."

"She's still seeing that slick-handed LC though. Burns my ass."

Roarke glanced down as McNab held out a jumbo pack of wild grape bubble gum. What the hell, he thought, took a cube.

Chewing thoughtfully, they watched their women work.

– =O=-***-=O=-

Eve ignored the onlookers. She could have ordered the scene cleared except for essential personnel, but it felt wrong to do so. The cops were there, a kind of homage to the badge, and to reassure themselves they were alive.

Both were valid reasons to stand by.

"Victim is identified as Mills, Lieutenant Alan, attached to the One two-eight, Illegals Division. Caucasian, age fifty-four."

Eve recited the data into the record as she gently lifted the chin. "The victim was found by civilian Stein, James, in the passenger seat of his official vehicle, on the break-down lane on the George Washington Bridge, eastbound. Cause of death not yet determined. He'd been drinking, Peabody."

"Sir?"

"Gin, from the smell of it."

"I don't know how you catch it," Peabody muttered, breathing between her teeth. "With the rest of the stench here."

With a sealed hand, Eve turned back Mills's jacket, saw his weapon still holstered. "Doesn't look like he even went for it. Why wasn't he driving? It's his unit. Most cops have to have their hands pried off the wheel before they let somebody else man their ride."

She wrinkled her nose. "That's more than blood and bowels and gin I'm smelling."

She released the seat belt, then jerked her hands back, an instinctive move, as his guts slithered out, sliding nastily from under his shirt.

"Oh. Oh Christ." Peabody choked, went glassily pale, stumbled back. "Dallas…"

"Get some air. Go on."

"I'm okay, I…" But her head spun, her stomach revolted. She managed to get to the side of the bridge before she lost the cheese and bean tacos she'd shared with McNab.

Eve closed her eyes a moment, bore down and bore down hard. There was a dull roar in her head, like the sea cresting. She blanked her mind until she was certain the rumbles she heard were from the traffic on the level below and from the sky overhead.

With steady hands, she unbuttoned Mills's fouled shirt. He'd been sliced, one long wide swath, from breastbone to crotch.

She noted it into the record while Peabody retched.

Sickened, she straightened, stepped back, let the marginally fresher air fill her lungs. Her gaze skimmed over a sea of faces: some grim, some horrified, some frightened. Peabody wasn't the only cop leaning over the bridge.

"I'm all right. I'm okay."

Through the pounding bells in her ears, Eve heard Peabody's weak voice.

"Come on, sit down a minute. Sit down, honey."

"McNab, get her recorder. I need it here."

"No, I can do it. I can." Peabody nudged McNab's patting hands away, straightened her shoulders. Her face was dead white to the lips. She shuddered once, but she walked back. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant."

"There's no shame in it. Give me your recorder. I'll finish this."

"No, sir. I can hold."

After a moment's study, Eve nodded. "Get him on record. Don't think about it. Close your mind to it."

"How?" Peabody asked, but turned to do the work.

Eve lifted a hand, had nearly rubbed it over her face before she remembered what it was smeared with. "Where the hell's the ME?"

"Lieutenant." Roarke stepped to her, held out a pristine white silk handkerchief.

"Yeah, thanks." She used it without a thought. "You can't be here. You have to stay back." She looked around for somewhere to dispose of the smeared silk and ended up stuffing it into an evidence bag.

"You need to take a minute," Roarke said quietly. "Anyone would."

"I can't afford it. I fold, even look like I'm going to, and I lose control of the scene." She stayed crouched, added a fresh coat of sealant to her hands. She got to her feet, handed him the ruined handkerchief in its bag. "Sorry about that."

Then she planted her feet, legs spread, as Roth marched back to Mills's car with Clooney in her wake. Roth stopped short, as if she'd run into an invisible wall, and stared at what there was of the man who'd served under her command.

"Ah, holy mother of God." It was all she said, her only sign of distress. While her eyes were burning dry, Clooney's misted with tears.

"Jesus, Mills. Jesus, look what they did to you." He closed his eyes, breathed long and deep. "We can't tell the family this. Can't give them the details of this. Captain Roth, we have to go inform next of kin before they hear some other way. We have to cover over the worst of this for their sakes."

"All right, Art. All right." She looked over as Eve took out her communicator.

"What are you doing?"

"Checking on the ME, Captain."

"I've just done so. ETA is under two minutes. A moment, Lieutenant. In private. Clooney, assist the lieutenant's aide in keeping the scene secure. I don't want any of those cops moving closer."

Eve walked away with her, away from the glare of lights into the softer shadows. The air cleared, the scent of exhaust and pavement was like balm after a burn.

"Lieutenant, I apologize for my earlier outburst."

"Apology accepted."

"That was very quick."

"So was your apology."

Roth blinked, then nodded slowly. "I hate making them. I haven't gotten where I am on the job by indulging my temper or apologizing for it. Neither, I imagine, have you. Women are still more closely scrutinized in the department and more strictly judged."

"That may be true, Captain. I don't let it concern me."

"Then you're a better woman than I, Dallas, or a great deal less ambitious. Because it burns the living hell out of me." She inhaled, hissed the breath out through her teeth. "My coming at you as I have has been an emotional reaction, an indulgence again, that was both inappropriate and ill-advised. I'm going to tell you that I overreacted to Kohli's death because I liked him, very much. I believe I overreacted to Mills because I disliked him. Very much."

She glanced back at the car. "He was a son of a bitch, a mean-spirited man who made no secret that, in his opinion, women should be having babies, cooking pies, and not wearing a badge. He disliked blacks, Jews, Asians… hell, he disliked everyone who wasn't just what he was: an overfed white male. But he was my cop, and I want whoever opened him up that way."