Chapter One
She stood in Purgatory and studied death. The blood and
the gore of it, the ferocity of its glee. It had come to
this place with the willful temper of a child, full of
heat and passion and careless brutality.
Murder was rarely a tidy business. Whether it was
craftily calculated or wildly impulsive, it tended to
leave a mess for others to clean up.
It was her job to wade through the debris of murder,
to pick up the pieces, see where they fit, and put
together a picture of the life that had been stolen. And
through that picture to find the image of a killer.
Now, in the early hours of morning, in the hesitant
spring of 2059, her boots crunched over a jagged sea of
broken glass. Her eyes, brown and cool, scanned the scene:
shattered mirrors, broken bottles, splintered wood. Wall
screens were smashed, privacy booths scarred and dented.
Pricey leather and cloth that had covered stools or the
plusher seating areas had been ripped to colorful shreds.
What had once been an upscale strip club was now a
jumbled pile of expensive garbage.
What had once been a man lay behind the wide curve of
the bar. Now a victim, sprawled in his own blood.
Lieutenant Eve Dallas crouched beside him. She was a
cop, and that made him hers.
"Male. Black. Late thirties. Massive trauma, head and
body. Multiple broken bones." She took a gauge from her
field kit to take the body and ambient
temperatures. "Looks like the fractured skull would have
done the job, but it didn't stop there."
"He was beaten to pieces."
Eve acknowledged her aide's comment with a grunt. She
was looking at what was left of a well-built man in his
prime, a good six-two and two hundred and thirty pounds of
what had been toned muscle.
"What do you see, Peabody?"
Automatically, Peabody shifted her stance, focused her
vision. "The victim ... well, it appears the victim was
struck from behind. The first blow probably took him down,
or at least dazed him. The killer followed through, with
repeated strikes. From the pattern of the blood splatter,
and brain matter, he was taken out with head shots, then
beaten while down, likely unconscious. Some of the
injuries were certainly delivered postmortem. The metal
bat is the probable murder weapon and was used by someone
of considerable strength, possibly chemically induced, as
the scene indicates excessive violence often demonstrated
by users of Zeus."
"Time of death, oh four hundred," Eve stated, then
turned her head to look up at Peabody.
Her aide was starched and pressed and as official as
they came, with her uniform cap set precisely on her dark
chin-length hair. She had good eyes, Eve thought, clear
and dark. And though the sheer vileness of the scene had
leached some of the color from her cheeks, she was
holding.
"Motive?" Eve asked.
"It appears to be robbery, Lieutenant."
"Why?"
"The cash drawer's open and empty. The credit
machine's broken."
"Mmm-hmm. Snazzy place like this would be heavier in
credits, but they'd do some cash business."
"Zeus addicts kill for spare change."
"True enough. But what would our victim have been
doing alone, in a closed club, with an addict? Why would
he let anyone hopped on Zeus behind the bar? And ..." With
her sealed fingers she picked up a small silver credit
chip from the river of blood. "Why would our addict leave
these behind? A number of them are scattered here around
the body."
"He could have dropped them." But Peabody began to
think she wasn't seeing something Eve did.
"Could have."
She counted the coins as she picked them up, thirty in
all, sealed them in an evidence bag, and handed it to
Peabody. Then she picked up the bat. It was fouled with
blood and brain. About two feet in length, she judged, and
weighted to mean business.
Mean business.
"It's good, solid metal, not something an addict would
pick up in some abandoned building. We're going to find
this belonged here, behind the bar. We're going to find,
Peabody, that our victim knew his killer. Maybe they were
having an after-hours drink."
Her eyes narrowed as she pictured it. "Maybe they had
words, and the words escalated. More likely, our killer
already had an edge on. He knew where the bat was. Came
behind the bar. Something he'd done before, so our friend
here doesn't think anything of it. He's not concerned,
doesn't worry about turning his back."
She did so herself, measuring the position of the
body, of the splatter. "The first blow rams him face first
into the glass on the back wall. Look at the cuts on his
face. Those aren't nicks from flying glass. They're too
long, too deep. He manages to turn, and that's where the
killer takes the next swing here, across the jaw. That
spins him around again. He grabs the shelves there, brings
them down. Bottles crashing. That's when he took the
killing blow. This one that cracked his skull like an
egg."
She crouched again, sat back on her heels. "After
that, the killer just beat the hell out of him, then
wrecked the place. Maybe in temper, maybe as cover. But he
had enough control to come back here, to look at his
handiwork before he left. He dropped the bat here when he
was done."
"He wanted it to look like a robbery? Like an illegals
overkill?"
"Yeah. Or our victim was a moron and I'm giving him
too much credit. You got the body and immediate scene
recorded? All angles?"
"Yes, sir."
"Let's turn him over."
The shattered bones shifted like a sack of broken
crockery as Eve turned the body. "Goddamn it. Oh, goddamn
it."
She reached down to lift the smeared ID from the cool,
congealing pool of blood. With her sealed thumb, she wiped
at the photo and the shield. "He was on the job."
"He was a cop?" Peabody stepped forward. She heard the
sudden silence. The crime scene team and the sweepers
working on the other side of the bar stopped talking.
Stopped moving.
A half dozen faces turned. Waited.
"Kohli, Detective Taj." Eve's face was grim as she got
to her feet. "He was one of us."
Peabody crossed the littered floor to where Eve stood
watching the remains of Detective Taj Kohli being bagged
for transferal to the morgue. "I got his basics, Dallas.
He's out of the One twenty-eight, assigned to Illegals.
Been on the job for eight years. Came out of the military.
He was thirty-seven. Married. Two kids."
"Anything pop on his record?"
"No, sir. It's clean."
"Let's find out if he was working undercover here or
just moonlighting. Elliott? I want those security discs."
"There aren't any." One of the crime scene team
hurried over. His face was folded into angry
lines. "Cleaned out. Every one of them. The place had full
scope, and this son of a bitch snagged every one. We got
nothing."
"Covered his tracks." With her hands on her hips, Eve
turned a circle. The club was triple-leveled, with a stage
on the main, dance floors on one and two. Privacy rooms
ringed the top. For full scope, she estimated it would
need a dozen cameras, probably more. To snag all the
record discs would have taken time and care.
"He knew the place," she decided. "Or he's a fucking
security whiz. Window dressing," she muttered. "All this
destruction's just window dressing. He knew what he was
doing. He had control. Peabody, find out who owns the
place, who runs it. I want to know everybody who works
here. I want to know the setup."
"Lieutenant?" A harassed-looking sweeper trudged
through the chaos. "There's a civilian outside."
"There are a lot of civilians outside. Let's keep them
there."
"Yes, sir, but this one insists on speaking to you. He
says this is his place. And, ah ..."
"`And, ah' what?"
"And that you're his wife."
"Roarke Entertainment," Peabody announced as she read
off the data from her palm PC. She sent Eve a cautious
smile.. "Guess who owns Purgatory?"
"I should've figured it." Resigned, Eve strode to the
entrance door.
He looked very much as he'd looked two hours before when
they'd parted ways to go about their individual business.
Sleek and gorgeous. The light topcoat he wore over his
dark suit fluttered a bit in the breeze. The same breeze
that tugged at the mane of black hair that framed his
poetically sinful face. The dark glasses he wore against
the glare of the sun only added to the look of slick
elegance.
And when he slipped them off as she stepped out, the
brilliant blue of his eyes met hers. He tucked the glasses
in his pocket, lifted an eyebrow.
"Good morning, Lieutenant."
"I had a bad feeling when I walked in here. It's just
your kind of place, isn't it? Why do you have to own every
damn thing?"
"It was a boyhood dream." His voice cruised over
Ireland, picked up the music of it. He glanced past her to
the police seal. "It appears we've both been
inconvenienced."
"Did you have to tell the sweeper I was your wife?"
"You are my wife," he said easily and shifted his gaze
back to her face. "A fact which pleases me daily." He took
her hand, rubbing his thumb over her wedding ring before
she could tug it free again.
"No touching," she hissed at him, which made him
smile.
"That's not what you said a few hours ago. In fact—"
"Shut up, Roarke." She glanced around, though none of
the cops working the scene was outside or close enough to
hear. "This is a police investigation."
"So I'm told."
"And who told you?"
"The head of the maintenance team who found the body.
He did call the police first;' he pointed out. "But it's
natural he'd report the incident to me. What happened?"
There was no point in griping because his business had
tangled around hers. Again. She tried to console herself
that he could and would help her cut through some of the
muck of paperwork.
"Do you have a bartender by the name of Kohli? Taj
Kohli?"
"I have no idea. But I can find out." He took a slim
memo book out of his breast pocket, keyed in a request for
data. "Is he dead?"
"As dead gets."
"Yes, he was mine," Roarke confirmed, and the Irish in
his voice had taken on a cold note. "For the past three
months. Part time. Four nights a week. He had a family."
"Yes, I know." Such things mattered to him, and it
always touched her heart. "He was a cop," Eve said. This
time his brows lifted. "Didn't have that data in your
little scan, did you?"
"No. It seems my personnel director was careless. That
will be fixed. Am I allowed inside?"
"Yeah, in a minute. How long have you owned the
place?"
"Four years, more or less."
"How many employees, full- and part-time?"
"I'll get you all the data, Lieutenant, and answer all
pertinent questions." Annoyance gleamed in his eyes as he
reached for the door himself. "But now, I'd like to see my
place."
He pushed inside, scanned the destruction, then
focused in on the thick black bag being loaded on what the
death attendants called a stroller.
"How was he killed?"
"Thoroughly," Eve said, then sighed when Roarke simply
turned and stared at her. "It was ugly, okay? Metal bat."
She watched Roarke look toward the bar and the spray of
blood sparkling on glass like an incomprehensible
painting. "After the first few hits, he wouldn't have felt
anything."
"Ever had a bat laid into you? I have," he said before
she could answer. "It's not pleasant. It seems far-fetched
to think it's robbery, even one that got well out of
hand."
"Why?"
"There'd have been enough prime liquor, easily fenced,
to keep anyone cozily fixed for some time. Why break the
bottles when you could sell them? If you hit a place like
this, it's not for the bit of cash that might be copped,
but for the inventory and perhaps some of the equipment."
"Is that the voice of experience?"
She teased a grin out of him. "Naturally. My
experience, that is, as a property owner and a law-abiding
citizen."
"Right."
"Security discs?"
"Gone. He got all of them."
"Then it follows he'd cased the place carefully
beforehand."
"How many cameras?"
Once again, Roarke took out his pad, checked
data. "Eighteen. Nine on this floor, six on two, and the
other two on the top level for full scope. Before you ask,
closing is at three, which would have staff out by half
past. The last show, and we've live ones here, ends at
two. The musicians and the entertainers—"
"Strippers."
"As you like," he said mildly. "They clock off at that
time. I'll have names and schedules for you within the
hour."
"Appreciate it. Why Purgatory?"
"The name?" The ghost of a smile flirted with his
mouth. "I liked it. The priests will tell you Purgatory's
a place for atonement, rehabilitation perhaps. A bit like
prison. I've always seen it as a last chance to be human"
he decided. "Before you strap on your wings and halo or
face the fire."
"Which would you rather?" she wondered. "The wings or
the fire?"
"That's the point, you see. I prefer being human." As
the stroller wheeled by, he ran a hand over her short
brown hair. "I'm sorry for this."
"So am I. Any reason a New York City detective would
have been working undercover in Purgatory?"
"I couldn't say. It's certainly likely that some of
the clientele might dabble in areas not strictly approved
by the NYPSD, but I've not been informed of anything
overt. Some illegals might change hands in privacy rooms
or under tables, but there's been no large transactions
here. I would have known. The strippers don't turn tricks
unless they're licensed, which some are. No one under age
is allowed through the doors—as client or staff. I have my
own standards, Lieutenant, such as they are."
"I'm not coming down on you. I need a picture."
"You're pissed that I'm here at all."
She waited a minute, her short, choppy hair disordered
from its dance outside in the early breeze. As the morgue
techs opened the door to transfer Kohli, the sounds of the
day punched into the club.
Traffic was already thickening. Cars crammed irritably
on the street, air commuters swarmed the skies. She heard
the call of an early-bird glide-cart operator call to the
techs and ask: "What da fuck'?"
"Okay, I'm pissed that you're here at all. I'll get
over it. When's the last time you were in here?"
"Months. It ran well and didn't need my direct
attention."
"Who manages it for you?"
"Rue MacLean. I'll get her information to you as
well."
"Sooner than later. Do you want to go through the
place now?"
"No point in it until I've refreshed myself on how it
was. I'll want to be let back in once I've done that."
"I'll take care of it. Yes, Peabody'?" she said,
turning as her aide inched forward and cleared her throat.
"Sorry, sir, but I thought you'd want to know I
reached the victim's squad captain. They're sending a
member of his unit and a counselor to inform next of kin.
They need to know if they should wait for you or see the
wife alone."
"Tell them to wait. We'll head over now and meet them.
I have to go," she said to Roarke.
"I don't envy you your job, Lieutenant." Because he
needed it, he took her hand, linked their fingers
firmly. "But I'll let you get back to it. I'll have the
information you wanted to you as soon as I can."
"Roarke?" she called as he started for the door. "I'm
sorry about your place."
"Wood and glass. There's plenty more," he replied as
he looked at her over his shoulder.
"He doesn't mean it" Eve murmured when he'd shut the
door behind him.
"Sir?"
"They messed with him. He won't let it go" Eve heaved
out a breath. "Come on, Peabody, let's go see the wife and
get this particular hell over with."
The Kohlis lived in a decent, midlevel building on the
East Side. The kind of place, Eve mused, where you found
young families and older retired couples. Not hip enough
for the single crowd, not cheap enough for the struggling.
It was a simple multiunit, pleasantly if not elegantly
rehabbed post-Urban Wars.
Door security was a basic code entry.
Eve spotted the cops before she'd double-parked and
flipped her On Duty light to active.
The woman was well turned out, with gilt-edged hair
that curved up to her cheeks in two stiletto points. She
wore sun shades and an inexpensive business suit in navy.
The shoes with their thin, two-inch heels told Eve she
worked a desk.
Brass. Eve was sure of it.
The man had good shoulders and a bit of pudge at the
middle. He'd let his hair go gray, and there was a lot of
it. Currently, it was dancing in the breeze around his
quiet, composed face. He wore cop shoes—hard-soled and
buffed to a gleam. His suit jacket was a little small in
the body and starting to fray at the cuffs.
A long-timer, Eve judged, who'd moved from beat to
street to desk.
"Lieutenant Dallas." The woman stepped forward but
didn't offer her hand for a polite shake. "I recognized
you. You get a lot of play in the media." It wasn't said
with rebuke, but there was a hint of it in the air,
nonetheless. "I'm Captain Roth, from the One twenty-eight.
This is Sergeant Clooney out of my house. He's here as
grief counselor."
"Thanks for waiting. Officer Peabody, my aide."
"What is the status of your investigation,
Lieutenant?"
"Detective Kohli's body is with the ME and will have
priority. My report will be written and filed subsequent
to notification of next of kin."
She paused to avoid shouting over the sudden blast of
a maxibus that pulled to the curb half a block down.
"At this point, Captain Roth, I have a dead police
officer who was the apparent victim of a particularly
brutal beating in the early hours of this morning while he
was in a club, after hours. A club where he was employed
as a part-time bartender."
"Robbery?"
"Unlikely."
"Then what is the motive, in your opinion?"
A little seed of resentment planted itself in Eve's
gut. It would, she knew, fester there if she wasn't
careful. "I've formed no opinion as to motive at this
stage of my investigation. Captain Roth, do you want to
stand on the street and question me, or would you prefer
to read my report when it's filed?"
Roth opened her mouth, then sucked in a breath. "Point
taken, Lieutenant. Detective Kohli worked under me for
five years. I'll be straight with you. I want this
investigation handled out of my house."
"I appreciate your feelings in this matter, Captain
Roth. I can only assure you that as long as I'm primary,
the investigation into the death of Detective Kohli will
receive my complete focus."
Take off the damn shades, Eve thought. I want to see
your eyes. "You can request the transfer of authority,"
Eve continued. "But I'll be straight with you. I won't
give it up easy. I stood over him this morning. I saw what
was done to him. You couldn't want his killer any more
than I do."
"Captain." Clooney stepped forward, laying a hand
lightly on Roth's arm at the elbow. There were lines
fanning out from his pale blue eyes. They made him look
tired and somehow trustworthy. "Lieutenant. Emotions are
running pretty high right now. For all of us. But we've
got a job to do here and now."
He glanced up, homing in on a window four stories
above. "Whatever we're feeling doesn't come close to
what's going to be felt upstairs."
"You're right. You're right, Art. Let's get this
done."
Roth turned to the entrance, bypassed the code with
her master.
"Lieutenant?" Clooney hung back. "I know you'll want
to question Patsy, Taj's wife. I have to ask if you could
go a little easy just now. I know what she's about to go
through. I lost a son in the line of duty a few months
back. It rips a hole in you."
"I'm not going to kick her while she's down, Clooney."
Eve shoved through the doors, caught herself, turned
back. "I didn't know him," she said more calmly, "but he
was murdered, and he was a cop. That's enough for me.
Okay?"
"Yeah. Yeah, okay."
"Christ, I hate this." She followed Roth to the
elevator. "How do you do it?" she asked Clooney. "The
counseling thing. How do you stand it?"
"To tell you the truth, they tapped me for it because
I have a way with keeping the peace. Mediation" he added
with a quick smile. "I agreed to survivor counseling, to
give it a try, and found I could do some good. You know
what they feel—every stage of it."
He pressed his lips together as they stepped onto the
elevator. The smile was long gone. "You stand it because
maybe you can help ... just a little. It makes a
difference if the counselor's a cop. And I've discovered
in the last few months it makes a bigger one if the
counselor's a cop who experienced a loss. You ever lose a
family member, Lieutenant?"
Eve flashed on a dingy room, the bloody husk of a man,
and the child she'd been, huddled broken in a corner. "I
don't have any family."
"Well ..." was all Clooney said as they stepped off on
the fourth floor.
She would know, and they were all aware of it. A cop's
spouse would know the minute she opened the door. How the
words were spoken varied little, and it didn't matter a
damn. The minute the door opened, lives were irrevocably
changed.
They didn't have the chance to knock before it began.
Patsy Kohli was a pretty woman with smooth, ebony skin
and a closely cropped thatch of black curls. She was
dressed to go out, a baby sling strapped across her
breasts. The small boy at her side had his hand clasped in
hers as he danced frantically in place.
"Let's go swing! Let's go swing!"
But his mother had frozen in place, the laughter that
had been in her eyes dying away. She lifted one hand,
pressing it to the baby, and the baby to her heart.
"Taj."
Roth had taken off her sunshades. Her eyes were coldly
blue, rigidly blank. "Patsy. We need to come in."
"Taj." Patsy stood where she was, slowly shaking her
head. "Taj."
"Here now, Patsy." Clooney moved in, sliding an arm
around her shoulders. "Why don't we sit down?"
"No. No. No."
The little boy began to cry, wailing yelps as he
tugged on his mother's unresponsive hand. Both Roth and
Eve looked down at him with stares of sheer, hot panic.
Peabody eased inside, crouched down to his level.
"Hi, pal."
"Going swing," he said pitifully, while great tears
spilled down his chubby cheeks.
"Yeah. Lieutenant, why don't I take the boy out?"
"Good idea. Good thinking" Her stomach was busily
tying itself into knots at the rising sobs. "Mrs. Kohli,
with your permission, my officer will take your son
outside for awhile. I think that would be best"
"Chad" Patsy stared down as if coming out of a
dream. "We're going to the park. Two blocks over. The
swings"
"I'll take him, Mrs. Kohli. We'll be fine." With an
ease that had Eve frowning, Peabody lifted the boy, set
him on her hip. "Hey, Chad, you like soy dogs?"
"Patsy, why don't you give me your little girl there."
Gently, Clooney unhooked the sling, slipped the baby free.
Then, to Eve's shock, he passed the bundle to her.
"Oh listen, I can't—"
But Clooney was already guiding Pasty to the sofa, and
Eve was left holding the bag. Or so she thought of it.
Wincing, she looked down, and when big, black eyes stared
curiously up at her, her palms went damp.
And when the baby said, "Coo" she lost all the spit in
her mouth.
She searched the room for help. Clooney and Roth were
already flanking Pasty, and Clooney's voice was a quiet
murmur. The room was small and lived-in, with a scatter of
toys on the rug and a scent—one she didn't recognize—that
was talc and crayons and sugar. The scent of children.
But she spotted a basket of neatly folded laundry on
the floor by a chair. Perfect, she decided and, with the
care of a woman handling a homemade boomer, laid the baby
on top.
"Stay" she whispered, awkwardly patting the dark,
downy head.
And started to breathe again.
She tuned back into the room, saw the woman on the
sofa gathered into herself, rocking, rocking, with her
hands gripped in Clooney's. She made no sound, and her
tears fell like rain.
Eve stayed out of the way, watched Clooney work,
watched the unity of support stand on either side of the
widow. This, she thought, was family. For what it was
worth. And in times like this, it was all there could be.
Grief settled into the room like fog. It would, she
knew, be a long time before it burned away again.
"It's my fault. It's my fault." They were the first
words Patsy spoke since she'd sat on the sofa.
"No." Clooney squeezed her hands until she lifted her
head. They needed to look in your eyes, he knew. To
believe you, to take comfort, they needed to see it all in
your eyes. "Of course it's not."
"He'd never have been working there if not for me. I
didn't want to go back to work after Jilly was born. I
wanted to stay home. The money, the professional mother's
salary was so much less than—"
"Patsy, Taj was happy you were content to stay home
with the children. He was so proud of them and of you."
"I can't---Chad:' She pulled her hands free, pressed
them to her face. "How can I tell him? How can we live
without Taj? Where is he?" She dropped her hands, looked
around blindly. "I have to go see him. Maybe there's a
mistake."
It was, Eve knew, her time. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Kohli,
there's no mistake. I'm Lieutenant Dallas. I'm in charge
of the investigation:'
"You saw Taj." Patsy got shakily to her feet.
"Yes. I'm sorry, very sorry for your loss. Can you
talk to me, Mrs. Kohli? Help me find the person who did
this?"
"Lieutenant Dallas," Roth began, but Patsy shook her
head.
"No, no. I want to talk. Taj would want me to. He'd
want ... Where's Jilly? Where's my baby?"
"I, ah ..." Feeling sticky again, Eve gestured to the
hamper.
"Oh" Patsy wiped tears from her face, smiled. "She's
so good. Such a love. She hardly ever cries. I should put
her in her crib."
"I'll do that for you, Patsy." Clooney rose. "You talk
to the lieutenant." He gave Eve a quiet look, full of
sorrow and understanding. "That's what Taj would want. Do
you want us to call someone for you? Your sister?"
"Yes." Patsy drew in a breath. "Yes, please. If you'd
call Carla for me."
"Captain Roth will do that for you, won't you,
Captain? While I put the baby down."
Roth struggled, set her teeth. It didn't surprise Eve
to see the annoyance. Clooney had essentially taken over,
gently, And this wasn't a woman who liked taking orders
from her sergeant.
"Yes, of course." With a final warning look at Eve,
she walked into the next room.
"Are you with Taj's squad?"
"No, I'm not."
"No, no, of course." Patsy rubbed her temple. "You'd
be with Homicide." She started to break, the sound coming
through her lips like a whimper. And Eve watched with
admiration as she toughened up. "What do you want to
know?"
"Your husband didn't come home this morning. You
weren't concerned?"
"No." She reached back, braced a hand on the arm of
the couch, and lowered herself down. "He'd told me he'd
probably go into the station from the club. He sometimes
did that. And he said he was meeting someone after
closing."
"Who?"
"He didn't say, just that he had someone to see after
closing."
"Do you know of anyone who wished him harm, Mrs.
Kohli?"
"He was a cop," she said simply. "Do you know anyone
who wishes you harm, Lieutenant?"
Fair enough, Eve thought and nodded. "Anyone specific?
Someone he mentioned to you."
"No. Taj didn't bring work home. It was a point of
honor for him, I think. He didn't want anything to touch
his family. I don't even know what cases he was working
on. He didn't like to talk about it. But he was worried."
She folded her hands tightly in her lap, stared down
at them. Stared, Eve noted, at the gold band on her
finger. "I could tell he was worried about something. I
asked him about it, but he brushed it off. That was Taj,"
she managed with a trembling smile. "He had, well some
people would say it was a male dominant thing, but it was
just Taj. He was old-fashioned about some things. He was a
good man. A wonderful father. He loved his job."
She pressed her lips together. "He would have been
proud to die in the line of duty. But not like this. Not
like this. Whoever did this to him took that away from
him. Took him away from me and from his babies. How can
that be? Lieutenant, how can that be?"
And as there was no answer to it; all Eve could do was
ask more questions.