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Renee rose—a crisp white shirt under a fitted jacket with tiny black-and-white checks, the shining blond hair sleeked back into an intricately braided knot at the nape. Jet earrings dangled, and one of the pink and white flowers graced her lapel. When she skirted the desk to greet her, Eve noted Renee wore high black heels.
“Lieutenant Dallas, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” Renee extended a hand, her bright blue eyes smiling. “I’m sure you know your reputation proceeds you.”
“Likewise, Lieutenant.”
“Please, have a seat.” She gestured to one of the two plush black visitor’s chairs. “Can I get you some coffee, or something cold?”
“No, thanks. I wish I was here under better circumstances, Lieutenant, but I have to inform you one of your CIs is dead.”
“One of mine?”
“From what I found in his file, I have to assume Rickie Keener, aka Juicy, was yours.”
Eve let that hang while Renee walked back around her desk, sat. Calculating, Eve thought, but she had to figure it’s smarter to admit it, acknowledge it.
“Yes, for a few years now. How did he die?”
“We’re working on that. Were you aware he used a hole off Canal?”
Angling her head, Renee frowned. “No. That’s his territory but not his flop. Is that where he was killed?”
“Looks that way, and it looks like he’d holed up there. Any reason you know of why he’d go to ground?”
“He was a junkie.” Leaning back in her desk chair, Renee swiveled slightly, side-to-side. “A lot of CIs are when you work Illegals. He might’ve had some trouble on the street, with a supplier, a customer.”
“He was still dealing?”
“Small-time. Mostly zoner, and low grade at that. It’s the sort of thing we have to offset against potential information with a resource. You know how it is.”
“Yeah, I do. When’s the last time you had contact with him?”
“Let me check my log.” She turned to her comp, began to tap as she spoke. “You don’t have COD?”
“He’s at the morgue, and I’ll be heading over there shortly.”
“I’d appreciate it if you could give me your opinion, or the basic facts. He was mine, after all.”
“Understood. It looked like an OD.”
Renee pressed her lips together. “Something we’re always prepared for around here.”
“But I’m not buying it.”
The tapping stopped; an eyebrow quirked. “Oh? Why?”
“Some variables. A few details I want a closer look at.”
“You think he was murdered?”
“It’s a strong possibility, in my opinion, at this time. You got that last contact?”
“Yes, sorry. I spoke to him via ’link on July eight from fourteen-ten to fourteen-fourteen regarding a tip on a Zeus kitchen on Avenue D. It was good data. We shut it down two weeks ago.”
“Could this have been a possible reprisal for passing the tip?”
As if considering, Renee sat back, swiveled in the chair again. “I had some concerns in the last couple of months that he was using heavier, and when he went up too far, he lost his filter. He’d brag. If it turns out it wasn’t an OD, he might have said the wrong thing to the wrong person.”
“You didn’t pay him off? On the tip?”
