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And she thought about friendships.
11
Still thinking of friendships, she left her office and stepped into the bullpen. There cops manned desks and cubes, worked the ’links and comps, followed up leads, pecked away at the never-ending paperwork. The familiar sounds, beeps, clatters, voices, Reineke’s off-key whistle, crisscrossed in the air.
There were friendships here, she knew, born out of the badge and nurtured in some cases by other shared interests or copacetic personalities. Competition, too, but she deemed that a good thing, a healthy and productive element of any group. The last thing she wanted was a bunch of easygoing, complacent cops.
Friction, an inevitable by-product, rubbed on personalities who worked long hours, and lived with the stress of the job. Only droids operated without friction, and she preferred men and women who sweated and bled and occasionally pissed each other off.
Her division ran smooth not only because she demanded it, but because—she felt—she trusted her people and didn’t hover over every case or every step of an investigation.
They lived with murder. They didn’t need her to remind them what she, the department, the victim expected of them.
Some were partners, and that ran deeper even than friendship, could be a more intense and more intimate relationship than lovers. A partner had your back, shared the risks, the work, spoke the language, knew your thoughts, kept your secrets.
If you were a cop, a partner trusted his life to you, and you did the same with yours. Every day, every minute.
Trust, she thought, was the foundation and the safety net of any partnership.
She started out—a second trip up to EDD in one day might implode her nervous system, but it had to be done. Before she reached the door, the whistling Reineke hailed her.
“Yo, LT.” He hauled himself up and over. “We’re on that pizza murder.”
“Mugging off Greene.” Just because she didn’t hover didn’t mean her detectives’ caseloads were off her radar.
“Yeah. Guy goes to pick up a veggie pie and gets coshed with a pipe wrench. Mugger took his wallet, and the pie.”
“No point wasting a pie.”
“You got that. Wife’s at home, see, waiting for him to bring it. Gets worried after he’s gone, like, an hour. Tries his ’link, but he can’t answer being dead and all. Tries the pizza joint, but they’re closed by that time. Tries to tag him a couple more times, and finally calls it in. Respondings found him three blocks away, tossed down some steps.”
“Okay. Where are you on it?”
“No prints on the pipe, no wits. He took the hit right in the face, then a second for luck that opened his head up. Take the wallet, kick him down the steps for good measure, and walk away. But how come you take a twenty-dollar pie and leave a seventy-five-dollar pipe wrench? And how come dead husband’s out picking up the pie that time of night when they deliver? It smells.”
She couldn’t argue when she smelled it herself. “You’re looking at the wife.”
“Yeah. Neighbors say they never fought. Never.” He shook his head, his eyes cynical, and all cop. “You know that ain’t normal. And coincidentally, there’s a call on the house ’link, about five minutes before she tried to tag the dead husband. Wrong number, the guy says, sorry about that. And it came from a clone ’link so we can’t trace it back.”
“Yeah, that smells pretty ripe. Insurance?”
“He upped it six months ago. It’s not a bundle, but it’s sweet enough. And for a couple months more than that, she’s been going out two nights a week. Pottery class.”
“With the thing.” Eve made a vague outline of a wheel with her hands. “And the gunk.”
“Yeah. You put the gunk on the thing and shape it up into something and put the something in the cooker. I don’t know why the hell, because if you want a vase or some shit, they’ve got ’em right in the store.”
“Feeney’s wife took pottery classes. Maybe she still does. She makes stuff then gives it away. It’s weird.”
“Yeah, but they got classes for every damn thing. We checked it out, and the wife, she’s registered. Never misses a class. But the thing is, it’s an hour class, and a couple of the neighbors who pay attention say how she leaves those nights before the husband gets home and doesn’t get back until ten, sometimes later. Class runs from seven to eight, but she’s out of the house before six. So you ask yourself, what’s she doing with those extra three hours when the class is a five-minute walk away? Instructor lives in the studio, and that’s pretty handy.”
“Sounds like they’re doing more than making vases. Priors?”
“Both of them clean up to now.”
“What’s your play?”
“We’re trying to track the pipe, and we could bring them in, sweat them, but at this point they gotta figure they got away clean, and she’s used to making those vases a couple times a week, and maybe she’d get a little antsy for a lesson. Seems like she’d want to, you know, get her hands in the gunk again. No classes tonight—we checked. Seems like a good time for some personal instruction, if you get me.”
