In Death 11 - Judgment in Death

put the department in a strained situation."
    "A dead cop makes a strained situation for me."
    "Don't second-guess me, Lieutenant," he snapped. "And don't underestimate my personal and departmental stand on the murder of Detective Kohli. If Ricker was involved in this, I want his ass more than you do. Yes, more," he added. "Now, tell me why, if he agreed to interview, he sent four assholes after you?"
    "I got under his skin."
    "Specifics, Lieutenant." Then he looked around. "Where the hell do you sit in this hole?"
    Saying nothing, she pulled out her creaky desk chair. He stared at it a moment, then in a gesture that popped the tension out of the room like a pin in a balloon, he threw back his head and roared.
    "You think I don't know that's an insult? I put half my ass on that excuse for a chair, and I'm through it and on the floor. For Christ's sake, Dallas, you've got rank. You can have an office instead of this cave."
    "I like it here. You get something bigger, you end up putting more chairs in, maybe a table. Then people start dropping by. To chat."
    Whitney hissed through his teeth. "Tell me. Let me have some of that coffee Roarke scores you."
    She moved to the AutoChef, programmed for two cups, hot, strong, and black. "Commander, I'd like to speak off the record for a moment."
    "Give me that coffee, and you can speak any way you damn well want for the next hour. Jesus God, what a scent."
    She smiled to herself, remembering the first time she'd tasted Roarke's coffee. The real thing, not soy or any of that man-made bean crap. She should have known, then and there, he'd be it for her.
    And because he was it for her, she turned with the coffee and put her faith in her commander. "Roarke was connected to Ricker in some areas of business. Roarke ended the association more than ten years ago. Ricker hasn't forgotten it or forgiven it. He'd like to sting Roarke if he could, through me if it works that way. During the meet, I used Roarke to poke at him. It worked. He lost his cool a couple of times. I keep pressing that sore spot, he'll keep losing it."
    "How bad does he want Roarke?"
    "Bad enough, I think, but he's scared of him. That scrapes at him more than anything, that underlying fear. Because, well, he doesn't see it as fear, but as intense loathing. He sent those morons after me because he wasn't thinking, he was reacting. He's too smart to order four piss-brains to hassle a cop, piss-brains that can be tracked back to him. But he lost control just long enough to send them out. He wanted me hurt because I sneered at him. Because I'm Roarke's cop, and I sneered at him."
    "You baited him. Consider this. He might have hurt you before you got clear of the house."
    "He wouldn't foul his own nest. It was a risk, but calculated. If I can get one of those jerks to roll, we could bring Ricker in, put more pressure on him."
    "These types don't roll easy."
    "It wouldn't take much. I want Ricker inside. He skated on the illegals bust. He shouldn't have. I've studied the reports and transcripts. It looked like textbook, every angle covered. Then there were all these screw-ups. The mix in the chain of evidence, one of the primary witnesses disappearing when he was supposed to be under protection, some clerk in the PA's office mis-files a statement. Little holes make bigger holes, and he slides through."
    "I agree, and there's no one who'd like to nail Ricker more than I would. But his connection to Kohli is tenuous at best. I can't see your angle on it."
    "I'm working it" was all she would say. She thought of Webster, the hints, but she wasn't ready to talk about it.
    "Dallas, Ricker can't be your personal vendetta."
    "He's not. Let me work it through, Commander."
    "It's your investigation. But watch your step. If Ricker was the trigger on Kohli, he won't hesitate to point at you. From what you've told me, he has more reason to."
    "I get in his face enough, he'll make a mistake. I won't make one."
    She went around with the lawyers, one for each of the men she'd brought in. They were, she thought, slime in five-thousand-dollar suits. They knew every trick. But they were going to have a hard time weaseling around the fact she had everything on record.
    "Records," the head slime named Canarde said, with a lift of his perfectly manicured fingers, "you alone had possession of. You have no corroboration that the discs were not manufactured or tampered with for the purpose of harassing my client."
    "What was your client doing