J. Robb - Judgment in Death

"So do I, Captain."

Roth nodded again, and together they watched the ME arrive. Morse, Eve noted. Only the top dog for one of the boys in blue.

"Homicide isn't my sphere, Dallas, as Clooney in his calm, reasonable manner has pointed out to me. I know your rep, and I'm depending on it. I want…" She trailed off and seemed to bite down on impatience. "I'd appreciate being sent a copy of your report."

"You'll have it in the morning."

"Thank you." She looked back, her eyes skimming over Eve's face. "Are you as good as they say?"

"I don't listen to what they say."

Roth gave a short laugh. "You want to wear bars, you'd better start." And she held out a hand.

Eve took it. They parted ways, one to speak of death and the other to stand over it.

As she walked, Eve glanced up and spotted the first media copter.

That, she decided, was a problem for later.

"Well, they made a mess out of him, didn't they?" Morse took the time to pull on a protective gown, then placidly sealed his hands and shoes while Eve waited beside him.

"Push the tox reports. I'm betting he was unconscious when he was sliced. His weapon's still on safety, and there aren't any defensive wounds. I could smell gin on him."

"Take a hell of a lot of gin to take a man his size under far enough that this could be done to him without his objection. You think he was killed while he sat there?"

"Too much blood for otherwise. The killer got him drunk, doped, whatever, took the time to unbutton his shirt, sliced him right down the middle. Then he buttoned him up again, strapped him in. Even tipped the seat back just enough so that his insides would stay in, more or less, until some lucky winner unstrapped him."

"Bet I can guess who that lucky winner was." Morse smiled at her with a great deal of sympathy.

"Yeah, I rang that bell." She was, damn it, going to feel the sensation of Mills's intestines slopping over her hands for a long, very long time. "The killer drove Mills here," she continued, "and walked away. We won't find any prints."

She scanned the area. "Ballsy. Ballsy again. He'd have to sit here. Maybe he even did it here, but I'm thinking he's not that much of a fucking daredevil. But he'd have to sit here and wait until he was sure it was clear enough for him to get out of the car. He had to have another transpo close by."

"An accomplice?"

"Maybe. Maybe. I can't rule it out. We'll check with the traffic cops, see if they spotted another car in the breakdown lane tonight. He didn't just walk off the goddamn bridge. He had a plan. He knew the steps. Get me the tox, Morse."

Peabody was standing by the rail, McNab beside her. She'd gotten her color back, but Eve thought she knew the kind of images her aide would see when she closed her eyes that night.

"McNab, you want in on this?"

"Yes, sir."

"Go with Peabody, get the traffic discs from the toll booths. All discs, all levels, for the last twenty-four hours."

"All?"

"We're going to be thorough, and maybe we'll get lucky. Start scanning them, starting backward with this level from twenty hundred hours. Find me this vehicle."

"You got it."

"Peabody, do a standard background on James Stein, the Good Samaritan. I don't expect you to find anything, but let's clear him out. Report, my home office, oh eight hundred."

"You've got Lewis in the morning," Peabody reminded her. "I'm scheduled for six-thirty at Central."

"I'll handle Lewis. You're going to be putting in a long night."

"So are you." Peabody's face turned mulish. "I'll report to Central as ordered, Lieutenant."

"Christ, have it your own way." Eve dragged a hand through her hair and reorganized her thoughts. "Have the first uniforms on-scene provide your transpo. One of them's a hot dog. He needs something to do."

She turned away from them, strode to Roarke. "I have to ditch you."

"I'll ride with you to Central, then find transportation home."

"I'm not going to Central straight off. I have some stops to make. I'll have one of the black and whites take you back."

He looked toward the units with mild disdain. "I believe I'll find my own transportation, thanks all the same."

Why, she thought, was everyone arguing with her tonight? "I'm not going to just leave you on the damn bridge."

"I can find my way home, Lieutenant. Where are you going?"

"Just some things I have to do before I write my report." His voice was so damn cool, she thought. His eyes so detached. "How long are you going to be pissed off at me?"

"I haven't decided. But I'll be sure to let you know."

"You're making me feel like a jerk."

"Darling, you managed that perfectly well on your own."

Guilt and temper tangled inside her, had her glaring at him. "Well, fuck it," she said, then grabbed him by the lapels of his coat, yanked him to her, and kissed him hard. "See you later," she muttered and stalked away.

"Count on it."

Don Webster was awakened out of a dead sleep by what he initially took to be a particularly violent thunderstorm. When the clouds cleared from his brain, he decided someone was trying to beat through the walls of his apartment with a sledgehammer.

As he reached for his weapon, he realized someone was pounding on his door.

He pulled on jeans, took his weapon with him, and went to look through his security peep.

A dozen thoughts ran through his head, a morass of pleasure, fantasy, and discomfort. He opened the door to Eve.

"Just in the neighborhood?" he said.

"You son of a bitch." She shoved him back, slammed the door behind her. "I want answers, and I want them now."

"You never were much on foreplay." The minute it was out, he regretted it. He covered that with a cocky grin. "What's up?"

"What's down, Webster, is another cop."

The grin vanished. "Who? How?"

"You tell me."

They stared at each other a moment. His gaze shifted first. "I don't know."

"What do you know? What's IAB's angle on this? Because there is one. I can smell it."

"Look, you come barging in here at… Christ, after one in the morning, jump down my throat, and tell me a cop's dead. You don't even tell me who or how it happened and I'm supposed to be some fount of fucking information for you."

"Mills," she snapped. "Detective Alan. Illegals, same squad as Kohli. You want to know how? Somebody sliced him wide open from neck to balls. I know because his guts spilled out on my hands."

"Christ. Christ." He rubbed both hands over his face. "I need a drink."

He walked away.

She stormed after him. She remembered, vaguely, his old place, the one he'd had when he'd worked the streets. This one had a lot more space, and more of a shine on it.

IAB, she thought bitterly, paid well.

He was in the kitchen, at the refrigerator, pulling a beer out. He looked back at her, took out a second. "Want one?" When she simply stared at him, he put it back. "Guess not." He flipped off the top, let it fly, then took one long swallow. "Where'd it happen?"

"I'm not here to answer questions. I'm not your goddamn weasel."

"And I'm not yours," he countered, then leaned back against the refrigerator door. He needed to get his thoughts in order, his emotions under control. Unless he did, she'd spring something out of him he wasn't free to say.

"You came to me," she reminded him. "Either fishing or smelling bait. Or maybe you're just IAB's messenger boy."

His eyes hardened at that, but he lifted the bottle again, sipped. "You got a problem with me, you take it to IAB. See where it gets you."

"I solve my own problems. What do Kohli and Mills and Max Ricker have in common?"

"You're going to stir up a hornet's nest and get stung if you mess with Ricker."