J. Robb - Creation In Death

“Yeah, you taught me.”

“Didn’t listen to myself this time. And that bile just kept rising up out of my belly into my throat over it.” His lips tightened as he shook his head. “You find a fresh angle, and instead of jumping on that, grabbing hold and pushing on that, I jump on you. Part of me’s thinking, ‘Did I miss that? Did I miss that before, and did all those women die hard because I did?’”

“You know better than that, Feeney. And yeah, I get knowing better isn’t always enough. How good was I nine years ago?”

“Needed seasoning.”

“That wasn’t the question. How good was I?”

He drank again, then looked up at her. “You were the best I ever worked with, even then.”

“And I worked that case with you, minute by minute, step by step. We didn’t miss it, Feeney. It wasn’t there. The evidence, the statements, the pattern. If he got them that way, or some of them that way, the evidence wasn’t there to show us.”

“I spent a lot of time yesterday going over the files. I know what you’re saying. What I’m saying is that’s the reason I jumped on you.”

He thought of what his wife had said the night before. That he’d railed at Dallas because she was his family. That she’d let him rail because he was her family. Nobody, according to his Sheila, beat each other up as regularly or as thoughtlessly as family.

“Didn’t like you telling me I needed a break either,” he muttered. “Basically telling me I needed a damn nap, like somebody’s grandfather.”

“You are somebody’s grandfather.”

His eyes flashed at her, but there was some amusement in the heat. “Watch your step, kid.”

“I should’ve run the new angle by you before the briefing. No, I should have,” she insisted when he shook his head. “Like you should’ve known I would have if everything hadn’t been moving so fast. There’s nobody on the job, nobody with a badge I respect more than you.”

It took him a moment to clear his throat. “Same goes. I got one more thing, then this is closed.” He rose again. “I didn’t put you here. You never were a rookie,” he told her in a voice roughened with emotion. “So I saw good, solid cop the minute I laid eyes on you. I gave you a hell of a foundation, kid, a lot of seasoning and pushed you hard because I knew you could take it. But I didn’t put you here, and saying that, well, that was stupid. You put yourself here. And I’m proud. So that’s it.”

She only nodded. Neither of them would handle it well if she blubbered.

As he went out, he gave her two awkward pats on the shoulder, then closed the door behind him.

She had to stand where she was a minute until she was sure she had herself under control. After a few steadying breaths she turned, started to sit at her desk. Someone knocked on the door.

“What?” She wanted to snarl, then did just that when Nadine poked a head in. “Media conference at nine.”

“I know. Are you okay?”

“Peachy. Go away.”

Nadine just sidled in, shut the door at her back. “I came by a little while ago, and…well, let’s say overheard a few choice words in raised voices. The reporter in me fought with the reasonably well-mannered individual. It was a pitched battle, and did take a couple of minutes. Then I wandered off until I thought the coast was clear. So again, are you okay?”

“That was a private conversation.”

“You shouldn’t have private conversations in public facilities at the top of your lungs.”

Point well taken, Eve was forced to admit. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Just something we had to work out.”

“It made me think it might be interesting to do a segment on tension in the workplace, and how cops handle it.”

“You’re going to want to leave this one alone.”

“This particular one, yes. Price of friendship.”

“If that’s all-”

“It’s not. I know you didn’t think much of the Romanian psychic, but-”

“Actually, there may have been a nugget there. Got another?”

“Really? I expect to be fully filled in on that. And, yes, I may just.” In her slim-skirted suit the color of raspberry jam, Nadine managed to ease a hip down on the corner of Eve’s desk.

“Bolivia,” she began. “We’ve been digging through the tabloids. You’d be surprised what nuggets can be found there that you cops disdain.”

“Yeah, those alien babies are a menace to society.”

“A classic for a reason. But we found an interesting story about the Moor of Venice.”

“Last time I checked, Venice was in Italy.”

“No, Othello-Shakespeare? And Verdi. Othello was this black dude, important guy, married to a gorgeous white women-mixed race marriages were not common back then in…whenever the hell it was.”

“Nine years ago?”

“No.” Nadine laughed. “More like centuries. Anyway, Othello ends up being manipulated by this other guy into believing his wife’s been cheating on him. Othello strangles her. And ends up in song and story.”

“I’m not following this, Nadine.”

“Just giving you some background. There was a big costume ball at the opera house in-”

“Opera?”

“Yeah.” Nadine’s eyes narrowed. “That means something.”

“Just keep going.”

“A woman in La Paz claimed she was attacked by a guy dressed like Othello. Black mask, cape, gloves. Claimed he tried to drag her off, tried to rape her. Since she didn’t have a mark on her, and witnesses stated that she was seen chatting amiably with a guy in that costume earlier in the evening, and she was skunk drunk when she started shrieking, her claims were dismissed by the police. But the tabs played it up. She was thirty-one, brunette, and the alleged incident occurred between the discovery of the second and third bodies. Had The Groom tried to claim another bride? Was the Moor of Venice seeking Desdemona? She played it up, too.”

Nadine shifted on the desk. “Or maybe she was giving some of it straight. She claimed he spoke exceptional Spanish, but with an American accent, was knowledgeable about music and literature, and was well-traveled. Now, with a little more research we learned she was a party girl-and that several were peppered through the guests to…entertain.”

“An LC?” Eve pursed her lips thoughtfully. “He hasn’t targeted any pros. Doesn’t fit his profile.”

“The party girls at functions like this don’t advertise. They’re frosting.”

“Okay, so it’s possible he didn’t make her as a pro.”

“Exactly, and you can read between the lines and assume she smelled money and played it up with this guy. He suggested they go out for some air, which they did. Then that they go for a drive-which she couldn’t do or lose her event fee. In any case, she said she started feeling off-dizzy, woozy. She also claimed she hadn’t been drinking, which, of course, she had. But I’m betting she knew her limit when she was working, and they mistook drugged for skunk drunk.”

“Could be.” Eve nodded. “Yeah, that could be.”

“When she realized he was leading her away from the opera house, she resisted. Here’s where I think she embellished or there would have been marks, tears, something. Figure when she started to struggle, to scream, he cut his losses. She tears back to the party. He slides off.”

“You gotta have more than that.”

“Yeah, I do. The third victim was a waitress, worked for the caterer who did this party. She worked the party. And a week later, she’s dead. So-”

“He cherry-picks potentials at the event,” Eve concluded. “Weeds it down to two. The first doesn’t work out for him. So he goes for the second. Where was she last seen?” Eve turned to boot up the file.

“Leaving her apartment four days before her body was found. She’d been scheduled to work that evening, called in sick. She wasn’t reported missing for two days because-”