“Cop work,” Eve interrupted. “Sacred.”
And clicked off.
When Roarke shot her a look, she shrugged. “When we get him, I’ll tag her back.”
“Fair enough. She’s working late. And apparently her source in Dublin’s working early.”
“Let’s hope Cobbe’s sleeping the quiet sleep of assassins. Do they dream, you think? Of the last hit, the next? I don’t think so. I think they go somewhere dark and still, and never have a single twinge. When ending a life means something—whatever it means, however it means it—your dreams aren’t dark and still.”
Because it brought her own dreams to mind, she shook it off. She programmed coffee for both of them, then spent the rest of the drive reviewing her notes, studying the map, planning the op.
When they got to Central, they rode the elevator up to Homicide. At least at that time of night the cars weren’t generally jammed. The occasional cop with a mugger—or the victim of same—maybe an unlicensed LC or illegals dealer.
A man with a straggly stubble of beard, matted hair under a stained flop-cap, a torn T-shirt, and ragged pants—and an amazing smell—stepped on.
“Jesus, Rigby, you smell like a sewer.”
“ ’Cause that’s where I’ve been. Caught me a couple of rats.” He grinned. “Heading up to shower.”
“You need the fume tube.”
“Maybe, but I hate that shit.”
When he got off again, she breathed out.
“You have the most interesting friends,” Roarke noted.
“Undercover cop, works the underground mostly.”
“As I said.”
They stepped off on Homicide, walked to the bullpen.
She expected to find Feeney and McNab, probably Callendar, Peabody, and of course, Abernathy. Instead she found them, along with the rest of her detectives and a number of uniforms, standing around drinking cop coffee and shooting the shit.
“What is this? After-hours meeting?”
Baxter, in black nearly as elegant as Roarke’s, turned. “Hey, LT, Roarke. Whatever hour, we’re in this and on this.”
“I haven’t cleared—”
“We ain’t looking for the OT,” Jenkinson said, and scowled. “Somebody goes after one of us?” He jabbed a finger at Roarke. “He goes after all of us. And we fucking take the fucker down.”
“So say we all,” Carmichael added. “Santiago and I are up if we get a call somebody’s dead. Otherwise, Feeney’s got a second van for us.”
“We’re going to back you up,” Trueheart told her.
She looked at Feeney. He wore black just as baggy and saggy as his usual shit brown. “Did you know about this?”
“I knew enough to have a van that can hold them.”
“All right. Everybody suit up, nobody goes anywhere without vests. Roarke, give Peabody the map so she can get it on-screen, and I can figure out how to use this bunch of—Sir.” She broke off, changed gears when Whitney walked in.
Not in a commander’s suit and tie, but in operation black and carrying a protective vest.
“You remain in charge, Lieutenant. Consider me one of the team.”
She had to rearrange her thoughts, and her strategy. She now had a small army of cops to—if they actually found the bastard—take down one man.
But she understood the sentiment, and the need. You came for one, you came for all.
“Feeney, van one, with the commander, the inspector, his aide, Roarke and McNab, myself, Baxter, Trueheart. Callendar, van two with the rest. Santiago, you’ve got a half-ass talent for e-work, so you can assist Callendar should she require assistance. Officer Carmichael, van two for the rest of your uniforms.”
She turned to the screen. “I ran priority on these locations, and we’ll work them by top order. Location one,” she began, and ran them through the op.
19
On the way through the garage to the vans, Abernathy touched Eve’s arm.
“Lieutenant, if I may say, that was an inspiring display of loyalty and dedication. Those who serve under you are—”
“Cops,” she said. “Damn good cops.”
“They are indeed.”
She climbed in the van, made room for the rest.
Feeney got behind the wheel, waited for Whitney to strap into the passenger seat. “You know if anything happens to you, your wife is going to kill me until I’m dead, then kill me again.”
Whitney nodded, face somber. “Only after she kicks my lifeless body into a boneless husk.”
“I’ll have to take satisfaction in that.” He offered Whitney his bag of candied almonds, started the engine.
Whitney crunched down, grinned. “Feels like old times, Ryan.”
“And we still have asses to kick.” Feeney drove out of the garage. “Van two, fall in line.”
“Falling in,” Jenkinson told him. “Who’s in for breakfast beers after we sniff this guy out and lock him up?”
He didn’t get a dissent as they made their way on darkened streets, passed a few bright bars and sex clubs, then moved into an artier atmosphere with coffee bars and wine bars, trendy lofts and flats.
The converted warehouse sat quietly with a few lights glowing low against the privacy screens.
Eve ordered van two to wait half a block back.
“Scan it,” she told McNab.
“Starting scan for heat signals, ground level. No filters or blocks in place, so we’re … Whoa!”
“Whoa what?”
“We got a lot of movement, a lot of bodies—bodies in motion. Trying to separate for count, but that’s gotta be at least eighteen or nineteen ground level. Ah, sitting, standing, lying down. They’re … oh, okay.”
Beside him, Roarke pinched the bridge of his nose and laughed. “I suspect you’ll find more of the same on the other levels.”
“The same of what?” Eve edged closer to the screen. Definitely got the picture. “Well, hell, it’s a goddamn orgy.”
“Sexcapades,” McNab said with a grin.
“A bunch of people rented this place for a month to have sex?”
Roarke glanced at Eve. “I’d say some enterprising soul or group rented the place for a month to hold sex parties—for a fee. Explorations in Sexuality, or something akin to that.
“Likely,” he added, “they have workshops and seminars. Perhaps door prizes.”
Trueheart looked away from the screen, flushing, while Baxter leaned in.
“There’s a threesome going on in the southwest corner, and that’s a serious puppy pile right in the center of the area. I wonder what they charge.”
“Sit back, horndog,” Eve ordered. “Scan the rest. We need to clear it. And knock off the snickering comments, van two.”
Since the scan indicated more than fifty people on various levels, in various groups, piles, and positions, Eve crossed it firmly off the list.
She grabbed her ’link when it signaled. “Nadine.” After reading the text, she keyed in a response, then copied the data to Abernathy.
“I’ve just sent you Cobbe’s probable hole in Dublin.”
“What?”