He played the light around the ruined space, calculating the best kill spot. “I want her to see me do it. I want her to see me when I cut her.”
Bix said nothing. He simply yanked Garnet’s head back by the hair and dragged the keen edge of his knife over Garnet’s throat.
And it was done.
He took a moment to be sorry when Garnet fell to the floor, blood and breath gurgling. He hadn’t liked the man, not particularly, but they’d been partners. So he took a moment for a little regret.
Then he pressed the master he’d used to unseal the doors into Garnet’s hand, slipped it into Garnet’s pocket. Removed Garnet’s disposable phone, his wallet, put them both in a bag, along with the knife he’d used. He’d dispose of them elsewhere.
He drew out the baggie of the powder Garnet had grown too fond off, dipped the dead’s thumb and index finger in it to leave more trace, then added it to the disposal bag.
It would look, in a way, very much as it was. Garnet had come to the scene for a meet, and the meet had gone south. His killer had taken whatever was of value from the corpse, and let it lie.
Bix straightened, cleaned the blood off his sealed hands. He turned and walked away, leaving the door open as a man might when running away from murder.
Back in the vehicle he drove north, putting some distance down before he contacted his lieutenant. “We’re clear, Lieutenant.”
Her acknowledgment—a nod as if she’d expected no less—rewarded him. “Thank you, Detective. Be sure to dispose of the weapon before you go to Garnet’s and remove anything that needs removing.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
While Bix circled around to dump the contents of the bag in the river, Roarke stepped into Eve’s office.
She was, he noted, starting to fade. And he imagined if he drew blood from her and ran it through an analyzer, it would register outrageous levels of caffeine.
“Marcia Anbrome.”
Eve looked up, blinked. “Who?”
Yes indeed, fading fast. “Take a moment,” he suggested.
“Who the hell is Marcia Anbrome? I just need to finish this backtrack on the—Shit. You got her?”
And she’s back, Roarke thought. “I want to put a bow on it, so I’ve got it running on auto to tie the ribbon, but I’d say I—or we—have her.”
“Anbrome—that’s a—what is it—anagram. Oberman, Anbrome. Marcia—Marcus. It’s a goddamn testament, or finger in the eye, for her father.”
“And I imagine Mira will have considerable to say about it.” He walked over, put her current work on auto himself, shaking his head even as she started to protest. “You have a briefing in less than six hours. She has a home in Sardinia,” he continued, drawing Eve to her feet. “And a flat in Rome. Her passport is Swiss. They’re excellent credentials, by the way,” he added, leading her toward the bedroom. “She must have paid a hefty sum for them. I’ve found properties and accounts worth upward of two hundred million. I think there’s a bit more tucked here and there.”
“I don’t get it. If she’s accumulated that much, why the hell isn’t she in Sardinia rolling in it? Why is she still pushing her way through the department, aiming at captain—and maybe commander? Why is she still on the job when she could be lying on the beach fanning herself with her own dirty money?”
“I’m probably the wrong one to ask.”
“No, you’re exactly the right one.” She sat on the arm of the sofa in the bedroom, pulled off her boots. “And I know the answer. It’s the rush, the challenge, the business. And hell, if you can make a couple hundred mil, you can make four hundred. She’ll never give it up. It’s not just what she does, it’s who she is.”
“As I’ve picked my way through her life—lives, I should say—I’d agree. She does spend time as Marcia. She keeps a private shuttle in Baltimore, flies over once or twice a month, depending. She generally spends an extended time there in the winter, sometimes in the summer as well. But she spends a great deal more time here, running that business.
“And here,” he told Eve, “she lives precisely within her means. A bit too precisely. Every bill paid upon receipt, and no purchases—that show—that would squeeze her very strict budget. No luxuries, none. So I’d say when she indulges herself, it’s in cash.”
“Everything’s precise with her, which means the books for her business will be very accurate, very detailed. Strong thinks there’s a hide in the office. I’d bet she has a copy there, another at her apartment. That’s control. That’s being able to open them up and gloat over all those tidy columns while her father watches her from the wall.”
After dragging on a sleep shirt, she rolled into bed. “It’s all the same. Money is power, power is money, control holds both, and command opens doorways for more. Sex and command are tools for creating more money and power, and the badge? It’s a gateway. Killing? Just the cost of doing business.”
“There are others like her.” Sliding in beside her, Roarke drew her close. “I’ve known them. Even used them when it seemed expedient, though I preferred, until more recently, to avoid cops altogether.”
“There’s more of us than them. I have to believe that.”
“Since I’ve been exposed to how real cops work, think, what they’ll risk and sacrifice, I can say one of you is more than a dozen of them. Let it go now.” He brushed his lips over hers. “It’s smarter to go into a fight rested.”
“You gave it up for me. You were mostly out of that kind of business when we got together, but you gave up the rest for me.”
“The rest was more a hobby by that point. Like coin collecting.”
She knew better. “I don’t forget it,” she told him, and closed her eyes to sleep.
Her com signaled at four-twenty and, cursing, she groped for it.
“Dallas.”
“Lieutenant. Detective Janburry from the one-six. Sorry to get you up.”
“Then why are you?”
“Well, I’ve got a dead body here, on your crime scene. Your name’s on the seal.”
“Off Canal?”
“That’s the one. I’m on the DB, Lieutenant, but wanted to give you the heads up. Especially since the vic was on the job.”
Her belly contracted. “ID?” she demanded, but already knew.
“Garnet, Detective William. Illegals out of Central.”
“I need you to hold this until I get there. I’m on my way now. Don’t transport the DB.”
“I can hold it. I’m primary on this, Lieutenant. I didn’t inform you to pass this ball.”
“Understood, and the tag is appreciated, Detective. I’m on my way.”
She tossed the com down, pushed out of bed to pull at her hair, to pace, to curse. “I set him up; she took him out. Goddamn it, goddamn it. I could’ve taken him in. I could’ve slapped him in a cage, put the pressure on with what I had. But I wanted more. I wanted to make them sweat. I wanted more time to put it together, to see what she’d try next. Now he’s dead.”
“Don’t you stand there and take the blame for one dirty cop killing another.”
“I made a choice. The choice killed him.”
“Bollocks to that, Eve.” Roarke said it sharply enough to stop her, to make her turn. “His choices and Renee’s killed him. Do you think she couldn’t have gotten to him in a cage, had him done?”
“I’ll never know now. I miscalculated. I didn’t think she’d risk bringing this kind of attention to the squad, adding another avenue of investigation. She outplayed me on this.”
“I disagree. You’re angry, and foolishly guilty, so you’re not thinking it through.”
“I’m thinking it through—Garnet’s dead.”
“Yes, and killing him requires another tale spun. More lies, more cover-up. If she’d thought it through, she’d have found a way to placate him, to keep him level. Failing that, kill him, certainly, but get rid of the body, lay a path that indicates he packed up, left.”
She stopped dressing to frown at him. “Hmm.”
“Hmm? He’d been suspended, and after tonight, he’d lose his badge. He’d be disgraced. Christ, I can write the script myself. Eliminate him, destroy the body. Meanwhile, go into his apartment, pack what a man who’s angry, who’s fed up, who’s humiliated might pack. Toss a few things around—temper, temper—and so on. In a day or so, tap his account, use his credit—send a message to his lieutenant, maybe to you, telling you all to go to hell. You can keep the bloody badge. He’s done with it, with you, with New York.”