J. Robb - Judgment in Death

Pierce, Detective Jon, ran along a parallel route, only he had a son, age three.

Goodman, Officer Thomas, was younger by two years, and considered a shoe-in for a detective's shield. He was recently married and a lay minister at his church.

Religion, she thought. Thirty pieces of silver.

Clooney, a twenty-six-year vet, had been attached to the One two-eight for the last twelve years. He'd partnered with Roth at one time, Eve noted, intrigued. Then Roth had sprinted past him up the brass ladder. That could piss a certain type of individual off.

He had a wife, and though her residence listed was different than his, there was no record of a legal separation or divorce. His son, Thadeus, had been killed in the line of duty while attempting to prevent a robbery.

Walked in on in progress, Eve noted, frowning. According to witness reports, he'd drawn his weapon, stepped in to shield one of the civilians, and had been attacked from behind. He'd suffered numerous stab wounds and had been pronounced dead on the scene.

His assailants had cleaned out the 24/7 store and escaped. The case remained open.

Thadeus Clooney had left behind a wife and infant daughter.

Suffered a loss, she considered. A big one. Could that turn a twenty-six-year vet with a spotless record into a killer?

But why blame other cops for the loss?

Last, she ran Bayliss, Captain Boyd.

Oh, he was clean, she thought as she read his data. If you looked only at that slick surface. Churchgoer, community volunteer, chaired a couple of charitable organizations, had his two kids in posh private schools. Married for eighteen years to a woman who'd come to him with money and social status.

Never worked the streets, she mused. Even in uniform, which he'd shed quickly, he'd been assigned to a desk: administration, evidence management, office aide. A born drone.

But a smart one. He'd moved up, then over, into IAB.

And there, she thought, he'd found his calling.

Interesting, she noted, that this last business wasn't his first official sanction. He'd been warned before about his methods. But whatever his means, he'd dug the dirt. The department had stepped nimbly aside, with a frown perhaps, but no serious block.

He'd skirted the rules: entrapment, illegal tapping, and surveillance. His favored ploy was to set cop against cop.

Cop against cop. How big a leap was it from destroying a career to taking a life?

Most interestingly, she discovered that shortly after the Ricker debacle, Bayliss had found himself under review, and had earned another sanction, for his attempt to discredit the sergeant in charge of the evidence area.

He'd gone so far as to harass the man's wife and children, to haul the sergeant into an IAB interview room and keep him there, without benefit of counsel or representation, for over four hours.

The IRS had received an anonymous tip, and though it hadn't been traced to Bayliss or his crew, it had resulted in a full audit of the sergeant's financials. Nothing suspicious had been found, but the audit had cost the unlucky cop thousands of dollars in legal fees and lost time.

She would have to take a much closer look at Bayliss, and now at the beleaguered Sergeant Matt Myers.

She wanted to go deeper but lacked the tech skill. She glanced over at Roarke, but she knew from his intent and focused expression that he wouldn't welcome the interruption.

Rather than humiliate herself with failure by attempting to access Bayliss's personal files, she tried another route.

She contacted Webster.

"Bayliss," she said without preamble. "Talk to me."

"A fanatic disguised as a crusader. A disguise I bought, I'm sorry to say, for a considerable amount of time. Dedicated to his particular mission. Charismatic along with it, like some prophet preaching a new religion."

She sat back, hummed. "Really?"

"Yeah, gets you hyped, which is what can pull you along before you realize you've just stepped knee-deep in a pile of shit. On the other hand, he's exposed corruption and moved a lot of dirty cops out of the system."

"By any means necessary."

"Okay." Webster sighed, rubbed the back of his neck. "That's true, particularly over the last year. His methods have been making me uneasy. I'm pretty sure he has files, extensive ones, on every cop in the department. Not that he shares them with me. He crosses over the line, privacy and procedure wise. I used to think it was justified."

"What changed your mind?"

"Sergeant Myers. He was officer of record on the Ricker evidence that mysteriously vanished or became corrupted. Jesus, Bayliss hounded him to death. He was convinced Myers was in Ricker's pocket, though there was no evidence, overt or covert, to substantiate it. My take is he figured he'd get Myers off the job one way or the other, but the guy stood up. He just wouldn't break, he wouldn't shake. When the department cleared him, he transferred to a house in Queens. Bayliss never forgot it, and he's been burning low over the slap on the wrist he took from The Tower."

"Tibble rapped him."

"That's the word. Right after the rap, he started the operation with Kohli. Maybe he figured he'd vindicate himself and end up with a shine. I don't know, Dallas, he's a hard one to figure."

"Do you know if this Myers is still alive and well in Queens?"

"I never heard otherwise." Webster's eyes widened. "Christ, Dallas, you don't think Bayliss is out there killing cops?"

"It would get them off the job, wouldn't it?" she countered. "One way or the other. You said you wanted in, Webster. Did you mean it?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I meant it."

"Then here's your first assignment. Check out Myers, make sure he hasn't met with any recent accidents. And if he's still breathing, see if you can find out if he's been visiting our fair city."

He hadn't worked Homicide for years, but he picked up fast. Nodded. "He'd have plenty of reason to resent dirty cops. What angle are you working?"

"I've got plenty of them. Right now, I'm going to get a warrant for Bayliss's personal files."

"I'll believe that when I see it," he muttered.

"When I do," she continued coolly, "I want your help sorting through them. I'll be in touch."

She cut transmission, then turned to see Roarke watching her. "Are you looking at Bayliss for this?"

"There's dirty and there's dirty. He's got grime under his manicure. How much distance is there between deliberately ruining lives and taking them?" She shrugged. "Webster can keep busy getting me some data on Myers, and we'll see where that goes. I can't say Bayliss is my first choice. I don't think he's got the stomach for blood-and we've still got Kohli being clean. But one way or the other, he's a connection."

"It's a simple matter to access his personal files."

"It would be, for you. I'll get a warrant, do it straight. If I'm going to bring Bayliss into Interview, and I am, I want it straight, and I want it clean."

"Then you may want to ask for another warrant while you're at it. On Vernon."

"It's already on my list," she began, then got slowly to her feet. "You followed the money."

"I did indeed, through a circuitous, convoluted, and tedious route, back to Max Ricker Unlimited. That doesn't give you Ricker personally passing funds from his hand to Vernon's, but it does involve his corporation. He's not as clever as he once was," Roarke murmured. "Or as careful. It should have taken me twice this long to trace it back to him."

"Maybe you're more clever than you once were." She walked over to study the screen, laying a hand on Roarke's shoulder. Most of what she saw was a jumble of accounts, names, companies. But one name in particular jumped out, made her smile.

"Canarde, am I reading this right? He's attorney of record for Northeast Manufacturing, a subsidiary of Ricker's main deal?"