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Eve took out a disc, plugged it in, called up the recording.
While it played, Peabody sipped coffee. “It’s off—just a little, but it’s close. The way it says, ‘I’m aware of that,’ when he questions you contacting him on the house ’link. I’d have known it wasn’t you, but he doesn’t talk with you every day, so yeah, he’d have bought it. Initially. Then, give him another ten seconds, and he’s going to think: blocked video, you never addressed him by name or rank, and you don’t do drone work. You wouldn’t be the one to contact all the plants and inform. You’d be too busy with the suspects.”
“He didn’t have the additional ten seconds. He goes up to answer the ’link. Only house ’link in the place, and in that room because that room’s secured, for police only when there’s a witness on the premises. Good spy equipment, they can locate that, and it’s good for them. Separate the two of them. Up and down, keeping one on the ’link just long enough to finish bypassing. He hasn’t even ended the transmission when they’re in.”
“Who called it in? Who called in the officer down?”
“They didn’t make their required hourly check-in. Backup team sent in, found them. Canvass turned up zilch, so far.”
“Those locations are soundproofed. Nobody would have heard the weapons’ fire.”
“It’s street level, they had to close the door behind them. Don’t miss a trick. In, one of them gives it a boot. Knight comes out, shouts the warning, and he’s down before he can draw his weapon. Preston responds, gets off one stream, and he’s down. Finish them off, do a quick search—not going to miss anything this time. Then they’re out.”
“Had to have a vehicle somewhere, running the surveillance, the electronics.”
“The third man, at least one more. Possibly two now. One to drive, one to handle the equipment. Inside guys report the target’s not there, the vehicle heads for a pickup spot, or just back to HQ. These guys walk away. Walk away from the scene because somebody might notice and remember seeing two guys get into a van outside a place where two cops got their throats cut. Too many people around there, walking, running shops, hailing cabs. It’s not a pit like where they snatched Newman.”
“Somebody might’ve noticed two guys entering and leaving the scene.”
“Yeah, and we’ll hope so, but it’s less of a risk. A couple of pedestrians, as opposed to two men jumping into the back of a van—especially since the reports of how Newman was abducted are all over the screen. Better to mix things up than form too recognizable a pattern.”
“And we still don’t know why.”
“We work with what we know. Extreme knowledge of electronics and surveillance, commando-style hits. Multiple participants. This is a team, and well-lubed. This team, or a member of it, ordered or requested the hit on the Swishers. And there’s a good chance they—What?” she called out, irritated at the knock on her door.
“Sorry, Lieutenant.” Jannson stood in the doorway.
“What is it, Detective?”
“I started making the rounds, for the Survivors’ Fund.”
“We’ll have to discuss that later.”
“No, sir. I was down in Booking, and when one of the uniforms was digging out a donation, he said they had an LC in the tank who was mouthing off about knowing something about what went down. He was pissed about it, the uniform, because she’s a regular visitor—street level. Always looking for an angle, mostly full of it. He figured she heard some of the men talking about Knight and Preston and wants some attention, a little glory. It’s a long shot otherwise, but I didn’t want it overlooked. Lieutenant, she was picked up on West Eighty-nine. Just blocks from the scene.”
“Bring her up, into Interview. We’ll take her for a spin. Check which room’s available.”
“I already did. Interview A’s clear.”
“Bring her up. You want in?”
Jannson hesitated, and Eve could see the struggle on her face. “Three of us in there, gives her too much thumb. I’ll take the Observation Room.”
“Have Booking shoot up her sheet. Nice catch, Jannson.”
Ophelia Washburn was more than worn around the edges. She was heading for tattered. She was a wide-hipped black woman with breasts of such enormity and stature no angel of God had bestowed them. Her top was spangled and feathered and strained mightily to hold those mountains in place.
Her hair was a towering shock of white. Eve always wondered why street-levels felt huge hair was as big a drawing card as huge breasts. And why either were needed, when most customers either wanted a fast bang or a quick blow job.
Her lips were full, large, and dyed to match the top. A gold eyetooth glinted between them, while the rest of her face was painted and slathered in a manner that shouted out, “Whore here! Inquire regarding rates.”
But all the paint and polish didn’t disguise the fact that Ophelia was past prime. Limping toward fifty, a decade beyond the age most street-levels burned out and took jobs as irritable waitresses or riders at sex clubs. Maybe bit actors in porn vids.
“Ophelia.” Eve kept her voice light, even friendly. “I see you’re operating on a suspended license and have three other violations within the last eighteen months.”
“No, see, that’s the thing. That cop, he said I was carrying illegals and I told him the john musta put them on me. You can’t trust a john, take it from me. But they don’t pay any mind, and I get my license suspended. Now how’m I supposed to make a living I can’t trick? Who’m I hurting out there? I get my health checks regular. You can see that in my file. I’m clean.”
“It also says you’ve tested positive for Exotica and Go.”
