In Death 32 - Treachery in Death

really horrible coffee, a hint of sweat, and somebody’s veggie hash. Which meant Reineke was probably on a diet again.
    Desks weren’t especially tidy, photos, printouts—some of them likely bad or obscene jokes—papered cubes and workstations.
    Jacobson sat kicked back in his chair juggling three colored balls—his thinking mode, she knew. Someone had recently hung a rubber chicken over the new guy’s desk, which meant he—Santiago—was sliding into the team and the rhythm.
    To her mind it looked, sounded, smelled, and felt like cop.
    She walked into her office, nodded at the murder board, hit the AutoChef for coffee.
    Skinny window—she thought the cleaners occasionally wiped it down. Overloaded desk—but she’d clean up the paperwork. Ancient file cabinet because she liked the backup—plus it was an excellent hiding place. Old AutoChef that still did the job, fairly new C&D that wasn’t yet giving her grief. The recycler worked, and as far as she knew was still a successful secret spot for her personal cache of candy.
    She had her roster, rotation, case status on a wallboard because she liked being able to glance at it quickly rather than calling it up on the comp every time she had to change or check or adjust.
    Deliberately horrible visitor’s chair, because who had time for chatty sessions anyway? Her desk was old, scarred, and serviceable, and like Jacobson she liked to think with her boots up.
    The office didn’t open into the bullpen—there was a little jog first. But unless she was catching ten of downtime stretched out on the floor or needed absolute privacy, her door was always open.
    She took the time to drink her coffee, to study her murder board, to consider her next steps. Before she took them she texted Roarke rather than tagging him in the middle of his workday.
    Briefing HQ, 1600. Promised food. OK?
    There, she thought, that covered the marriage rules, plus shifted to Roarke—she hoped—the obligation to inform Summerset he’d be feeding a bunch of cops.
    “Peabody,” she said as she crossed through the bullpen again, “with me.”
    Peabody scrambled to catch up as Eve hit the glide. “Murder book and board in your office.”
    “I saw. I informed Lieutenant Oberman of the death of her weasel.”
    “How’d she take it?”
    “Always tough to lose a CI. She’ll pass me all data on the vic, after we verify COD. She doesn’t buy homicide.” Eve shrugged carelessly for whatever eyes and ears might catch any part of the conversation. “Then again, she’s a desk jockey who doesn’t work murders.”
    “And we’re the kick-ass murder cops.”
    “We are. We’ll see what the ME has to say. We could get lucky and find the sweepers report waiting for us when we get back.”
    “I admire your optimism.”
    They talked shop in general until they were in the garage, in the vehicle, and driving out.
    “Did you get wired?” Eve asked her.
    “Yeah, I’m set. What about Renee, really?”
    “She’s smooth, hard, cold. And she’s quick. She had to decide on the spot whether to admit Keener was her weasel, then how to play me when I said I was looking at murder instead of OD. Her squad room looks like the reception area of a big-shot office, and her office is the big shot. We’ll go over it all at the briefing, including Mira’s analysis and eval, but the upshot is she’s a stone bitch with daddy issues and a thirst for power, status, and money.”
    “I got the stone bitch part from the locker room.”
    “There was a detective Garnet took out with him right after he came out of a meet with Renee—in her big, fancy, shuttered office—which was right after she was told I was there to see her. Blond and blue, early thirties, about six four, maybe two-thirty. Garnet called him Bix. See what you can get.”
    “All over it. You think he’s her muscle.”
    “Odds are. There was another, female, mixed-race, also early thirties. Detective Strong. My vibe was she isn’t a big fan of her boss.”
    May be able to use that, Eve thought, turn that.
    “Bix,” Peabody announced, “Detective Carl, age thirty-two—you got the height dead on, two pounds under on the weight. Ten years on the force, out of the Army where he served from age eighteen to age twenty-two. Born in Tokyo where his parents—both also Army—were stationed at the time. Has a sib, a brother, four years older. Assigned to Illegals under Lieutenant Oberman for the last four years. Did a year in Vice after