In Death 28 - Promises in Death

in her building? It had to be somebody in there. She lived in a secure building, and she was careful.”
    “Have you been to her building, her apartment?”
    He closed up again. “Sure, a couple of times. Picked her up, dropped her off when we worked a case together. I have a ride, she doesn’t. So what?”
    “Did you and Detective Coltraine have a personal relationship?”
    “You mean did I screw her. Look, bitch—”
    Eve leaned in again. “I am a ranking officer. If you call me a bitch, you’d better damn well put Lieutenant in front of it. Answer the question.”
    “No. Not like you mean. We had a drink now and then, like everybody else in the squad. Maybe we grabbed a meal. She was tied up with the death doctor. You ought to be talking to him. He had access to her building, her apartment, he’d know how to take her out fast, leave a clean scene.”
    “Do you have any knowledge that there was any friction between her and Dr. Morris?”
    He shrugged, scowled off toward the window. “People have sex, they have friction. First person you eyeball with murder is the spouse or lover. But you’re here, grinding us through it.”
    “So noted. You’re done, Detective.”
    Eve sat, watched as he strode out, gave the door a slam behind him. “He made a play for her, that’s my take. Too much heat there. He made a play and she brushed him back, and then she goes for Morris. He’s the type used to having women go for him, not somebody else.”
    “He’d be stupid to give us an alibi we can break,” Peabody said.
    “Yeah, but we’ll check it anyway. In fact, you do that now. I’ll go thank Delong.”
    “If there was something between him and Coltraine—or tension between them because she didn’t let there be—wouldn’t the rest of the squad know?”
    “Cops are good at keeping secrets.”
     
    T hey met outside, where, at Peabody’s insistence, they grabbed a quick to-go lunch from the deli. Eve wasn’t sure what was inside the roll she ate while they leaned against her vehicle, but it was pretty damn good.
    “So, Clifton’s alibi checks out.” Peabody chomped into her own sandwich with obvious enjoyment. “But she was pretty pissy about it. ‘Yeah, we spent the night together, so what.’ Snarly, defensive. She and Clifton deserve each other.”
    Eve ate, watched cops come and go. Busy little house, she thought. And little meant more interaction, more internal relationships. Cops tended to stand for each other, it was part of the code. She’d taken down wrong cops before, and it was a hard and ugly process.
    She hoped she wouldn’t have to take one down for this.
    “Clifton’s had a lot of disciplinary slaps, and a few marks for using undue force. He’s got a temper. This murder doesn’t feel like heat. But we need to dig into him, and his alibi, a little deeper.”
    “I hate that. I hate looking at us for this.”
    “Then we hope it’s a straight bad guy, one without a badge. But we look. We’ll take the weasel next, then I want to go back to the scene, go through it again.” She walked around to get in the car, leaving Peabody no choice but to hop in.
     
    T hey found the pawnshop and its proprietor easily enough. The guy looked a little like a weasel, Eve thought—or what she figured a weasel looked like. He sat in back of his security glass, making a deal with a guy sweating for his next fix.
    Bollimer’s long, sharp nose twitched in the center of his long, thin face. Scenting cop, Eve decided, as the man’s bright, black eyes darted over toward her and Peabody.
    “You got fifty.”
    “Come on, man.” The junkie’s body twitched, his voice piped with desperation. “I need the hundred. It’s worth more’n that. Worth two-fifty easy. Have a heart, man. I need the one.”
    Bollimer sniffed through his nose, pretended to examine the wrist unit more carefully. “Seventy-five. That’s the best I can do.”
    “How about ninety, maybe? How about ninety? It’s a nice piece.”
    “Seventy-five’s the limit.”
    “Okay, okay. I’ll take it.”
    Bollimer tapped some keys on his minicomp, and it spat out a form. He slid it through the chute. “You know the drill.”
    The junkie scrawled his name on both parts, tore off his tab, slid the other end back to Bollimer. After keying in another code, Bollimer sent the seventy-five jingling down a tube. “You got thirty days to reclaim,” he said, and only shook his head as the man rushed out of the shop.
    “He’ll be back,