“She slid right in. We had some ribbing going on. Southern transplant, and her looks. But she held her own, and earned respect. I’m going to say my squad runs pretty damn smooth. Ammy fit it.”
“What kind of cop was she?”
He sighed a little. “She was solid. A detail cop. Organized, good eye. She’d work a case through, no bitching about OT, no griping over paperwork. She was an asset. She cleared her share of cases. She wasn’t flashy, didn’t need the big collar. She was steady. Did her job.”
“And her personal life?”
“She wasn’t flashy there, either. Everybody knew she was involved with Morris. We got a squad of four here. It’s hard to keep secrets. She was happy. If she had trouble, she didn’t share it, she didn’t show it.”
“Why did she transfer out of Atlanta?”
“I asked her, the way you would. She told me she’d started to feel as if she’d gotten into a rut, that she needed a change of scene, of routine. I wish I had answers. I wish I had something clear-cut to give you. I know your reputation, Lieutenant. Detective,” he added with a nod to Peabody. “While part of me wants my team on this case, I know Ammy’s in good hands.”
“Thank you. If you’d direct us to the conference room, we’ll set up. If her most usual partner, Detective Grady’s available, we can talk to her first.”
“I’ll take you up.”
The room boasted a single long table, a lot of creaky chairs, two wall screens, a wide whiteboard, and an aged AutoChef.
Peabody tried the coffee, blanched. “It’s worse than ours. I didn’t think that was possible. I’m going to hit Vending for a soft drink. You want one?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
While she waited, Eve thought of Delong. She understood. If Coltraine had gone down in the line, under his command, there would be guilt and grief and anger. But he’d know why. The bad guy got the edge that day. He’d know who, and even if that bad guy needed to be chased down, he’d know.
She set her recorder and her notebook on the table. Took out her PPC to refresh herself on Detective Cleo Grady.
Thirty-two, Eve mused. Detective third grade with eight years in. New York transplant from Jersey. No marriages, no cohabs, no children. Several commendations, and a handful of disciplinary slaps. Part of Delong’s squad for three years, transferring at her own request from SVU. Parents retired to Florida. No sibs.
She glanced up when Cleo rapped on the doorjamb. “Detective Grady, Lieutenant.”
“Have a seat.”
It showed in the eyes, Eve thought. The anger and the resentment. And in the tight line of the mouth. Cleo wore her streaked blond hair short, straight, sleek, and showed off a couple of winking blue studs in her earlobes. The eyes, a deep, almost navy blue, stayed level with Eve as she crossed the room.
She hit five-five, with a body both solid and curvy. She wore simple brown trousers, a white shirt, and a thin tan jacket over it. Like Eve, she preferred the shoulder harness.
“The boss wants us to cooperate, so we will.” She had a quick, clipped voice, a little raw at the edges. “But this should be our case.”
“If it was my partner or a member of my squad, I’d probably feel the same. But it’s not your case. We’re on record here, Detective.” She paused as Peabody came in, shut the door.
“I picked up some water and Pepsis,” Peabody said, and set bottles on the table.
Cleo shook her head. “The least you can do is tell me what you’ve got.”
“You can talk to your lieutenant about that. We brought him up to date. You can play the hard-ass with us, but that’s not helping Detective Coltraine.”
“If you’re looking to dig up dirt on her—”
“Why would we be? We’re not IAB. We’re homicide. Your squadmate was murdered, Detective. So cut the crap. You and Coltraine were often partnered.”
“Yeah, the boss thought we complemented each other.”
“Did you also interact on a personal level? Socially?”
“Sure we did. Why wouldn’t . . .” She shook her head again, held up a hand. She picked up a bottle of the water she’d initially rejected, twisted it open, drank. “Look, maybe I’m sorry for the attitude, but this is hard. She was part of my team, and we got to be friends. We worked damn well together, you can look at our case files and see that. And we got so we’d hang out sometimes. Have a drink after shift or a meal. Maybe just the two of us, or maybe with some of the other guys. It wasn’t always about the job, either. We’d talk about regular stuff. Hair and weight and men.”
“You were close,” Peabody commented.