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They were at desks, in cubes, answering ’links, writing reports. A couple were taking statements from civilians who’d either been victimized or had victimized someone else.
There was the smell of bad fake coffee, sickly sugar substitute, sweat, and someone’s greasy dinner. And under it was that fury, a ripe, rich, dangerous odor.
Most of the noise stopped when she came in, but one of the civilians continued to weep in soft, liquid sobs. ’Links beeped, and for the moment were ignored.
She knew she had blood on her, and she knew every cop in the room saw it and thought of where it had come from.
“Detectives Owen Knight and James Preston went down in the line at approximately twenty-fifteen this evening. They were murdered while doing the job. Detective Knight leaves a mother, father, and sister. Detective Preston leaves a wife, a three-year-old son, his parents, grandparents. Donations to the Survivors’ Fund can be made in their names. Detective Jannson,” Eve said, “will you coordinate?”
The woman nodded. “Yes, sir. Can you give us the status, Lieutenant?”
“We believe tonight’s events are connected to the Swisher homicides. Five civilians, two of them minors, were murdered. Preston and Knight, and every one of us, is charged with protecting and serving the people of New York, of seeing to their safety. Those of us here, in Homicide, are equally charged to serve those whose lives have been taken, of searching out and apprehending those who take lives. We close cases here, and we’ll close this one. For those five civilians, two of them minors, and the people they left behind. Now they’ve taken two of our own, and we will search them out and apprehend.”
She waited a beat, and there was only silence. “Until such time any and all requests for personal time, vacation time, sick leave must be cleared by me or the ranking officer on shift. You’ll be working this case in addition to your currents, reports to be filed daily. No exceptions. At change of shift, report to the ready room for a full briefing and assignments. We’re going to hunt them down, and we’re going to take them out. That’s it.”
She heard no complaints at the additional load as she walked into her office, shut the door.
She got coffee, then just sat.
A police representative and department counselor would have delivered the news by now to the families of the dead. So she was spared that. She would have to speak to them at the memorials, offer some words.
She wanted the words to include: We got the sons of bitches who did this. Who left you a widow, who killed your son, your brother. Who left you without a father.
She pinched the bridge of her nose, then rose to pin the stills from the scene onto her board.
Then she sat to write her report.
None of the other safe houses had been hit. Didn’t hit them, she thought, because you knew the target wasn’t there. Knew that when you found two armed cops guarding an empty house.
Killing them was a flourish, she decided. A message. No need to finish them off when they were down. Already decided to do that, though. Part of the mission. Take out everybody inside, another clean sweep.
And what’s the message? Why add cop killing to the mix when it brings down the full force of the NYPSD? Because you think you’re better—smarter, slicker, better equipped. And you know we’ve made the connection. You know we’ve got the kid and you want her.
Newman would have told you the kid can’t ID you. But she’s a detail, she’s a miss, and you can’t risk it.
I wouldn’t, Eve thought. No, I wouldn’t chance leaving that thread dangling when I’d been so careful. It’s not squared away, and it’s a little bit insulting. Some snot-nosed kid slips out from under you?
Pride in the work. She tipped back just a bit, rolled her shoulders. Got to have pride in the work to be that damn good at it. And the mission wasn’t accomplished, is not complete until Nixie Swisher is dead.
“So what will you do next?” Eve asked aloud. “What will you do?”
There was a sharp knock on her door, then Peabody shoved it open. “You didn’t call me in. I heard it on the goddamn screen.”
“I need you tomorrow. I need you fresh.”
“Bullshit.”
Eve sat where she was, though a low vibration had begun to hum in her blood. “Crossing a line, Detective.”
“I’m your partner. This case is mine, too. I knew those guys.”
“I’m also your lieutenant, and you’re going to want to be careful before you end up with an insubordinate in your file.”
“Fuck my file. And fuck you, too, if you think I give a rat’s ass about it.”
Slowly, Eve rose out of her chair. Peabody’s chin jutted out, her jaw clenched—and so did her fists. “Going to take a shot at me, Detective? You’ll be on your ass and bloody before you finish the swing.”
“Maybe.”
