Judgment in Death

Saying nothing, Roarke tapped keys and had data shooting onto a screen.

"You already ran him?"

"Did you think I wouldn't?" Roarke said coolly. "Webster appears to be as clean as the traditional whistle. Which, using the standard you applied to Roth, puts him on your suspect list."

"Except for one thing." She moved closer to the screen, frowning over the data. "He knew about Kohli, helped set it all up. Why take out a straight cop? Going from evidence, from my own instincts, and from Mira's profile, I'm looking for someone avenging themselves. Someone who's taking out cops who went wrong. Webster was one of the few who knew Kohli hadn't. So no, I'm not looking at him for this, not if he's clean."

"And if he wasn't?"

"Then maybe I could've stretched it that he took Kohli out because Kohli was clean and knew Webster wasn't. What are these payments here? Steady outlay every month for the last two years to LaDo

"He's got a sister, divorced. She's going to medical school. He's helping her out."

"Hmmm. Could be a blind."

"It's legitimate. I checked. She's in the top ten percent of her class, by the way. He gambles occasionally," Roarke continued, sipping his brandy. "Small stakes, typical entertainment gambling pattern. He springs for season tickets for arena ball every year and has an affection for suits made by an overpriced and, in my opinion, woefully inferior designer. He doesn't put much away for a rainy day, but lives within his means. Which isn't difficult. He makes twice as much as you do, at the same rank. I'd complain about that."

"Desk jockeys," Eve said with obvious disdain. "Who can figure it? You went awfully deep on him."

"I prefer being thorough."

She decided, under the circumstances, to leave it at that. "He wants in."

"I beg your pardon?"

"On the case, Roarke. He wants me to let him in on the homicide investigation. He's feeling used and abused at the way it was set up. I believe him."

"Are you asking me my opinion?"

Relationships, she thought darkly, were so often a major pain in the ass. "I'm asking you if it's going to cause any problems around here if I let him in."

"If I said yes?"

"Then he stays out. He'd be useful, but I don't need him."

"Darling Eve. You needn't worry about…" He remembered her phrase, and her tone when she'd used it. "About my dick getting in a twist. Do what suits you. This needs my attention," he said as the computer signaled a pause. "Do you have more names?"

"A few."

"Be my guest." He gestured to the side unit, then took his seat behind the console.

Marriage, Eve thought as she took her seat, was a puzzle she didn't think she'd ever solve. Too many damn pieces. And the shapes of them were constantly changing on her. He seemed perfectly fine with the idea of her working with Webster, a man he'd pounded on gleefully the night before.

But maybe he wasn't, and this complacent agreement was just a ruse.

She'd just have to worry about it later.

She got down to work. At least that was something she understood. She ran the names Patsy Kohli had given her. Her husband's cop friends. Detectives Gaven and Pierce and an Officer Goodman, along with Sergeant Clooney.

On her first pass, every one of them looked clean enough to glint. Gaven, Detective Arnold, had a nice pocketful of commendations and a solid number of closed cases. He was tidily married, had a five-year-old daughter, and was lead-off batter in the squad's softball team.

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."