Obsession in Death (In Death 40)

“Yes, sir, it will. Even if we could keep it shut down, the killer won’t. What’s the point of going to all the trouble to write that, then not get any attention, or gratitude?”

Whitney went back, sat again. “You and I both know it would be considerably less . . . sticky, if I assigned another primary to this investigation.”

“Maybe less sticky, Commander, but I’m asking you not to do that. If the killer meant what was written, this murder was a favor to me, a punishment for disrespect. Taking me off as primary could, and I think would, be seen as more disrespect. This individual thinks he knows me, and he doesn’t. That gives me an advantage.”

Dispassionate, Eve reminded herself.

“Peabody is coordinating all correspondence sent to me through Central, and considering the exposure from the Icove investigation, book, and vid, through the Hollywood people. We’re going to request Dr. Mira assign a behaviorist to analyze said correspondence if she doesn’t have time to analyze it all herself. It’s likely the killer has attempted to contact me prior to this, most likely more than once.

“As I already have some working knowledge of the victim’s firm due to the previous homicide, it gives me a leg up there.”

Lay it out, she told herself. Quick and logical.

“Two homicides in one law firm defies considerable odds, and the killer’s knowledge of the victim’s building, exactly where the cameras were, exactly where her apartment was situated—and he knew she was home, home and alone, or he wouldn’t have struck at that time—indicates inside knowledge or considerable research.”

“It’s your name on the wall, Dallas.”

“Yes, sir, it is. He wants my attention, Commander, or he wouldn’t have left anything, much less a written note. I want to give it to him. By doing so, it’s possible he may try to contact me again.

“It’s impossible to say this isn’t personal on some level—my name’s on the wall. But I hope you can take my word that won’t get in my way.”

Steepling his hands, Whitney tapped his fingers together, studied Eve over them. “If I were to reassign this, which cop in your division would you recommend as primary?”

It was a kick in the gut, but she stood, answered with truth. “There’s no cop in my division I wouldn’t recommend. Every one of them would pursue this investigation thoroughly, diligently, and work until they’d closed the case.”

“That’s the right answer. You’re going to keep that in mind, as am I. I’ll speak with Chief Tibble. You will speak with Kyung on exactly how to handle the media shitstorm when it hits, because it will. I expect you to keep your word, Lieutenant. If it gets in your way, you say it, and you step back.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get to work.”

“Thank you, Commander.”

She struggled not to feel too much relief as she left the office.

Dispassionate, she told herself again. Just another case.

But that was bullshit because . . . it was always bullshit. It was never just another case.

She headed straight down to Homicide, ignoring the low-grade headache in the back of her skull. When she stepped into her division she took just a moment, evaluated.

She had spoken complete truth.

Any one of them. Every one of them, from Jenkinson slurping bad coffee while scowling at his desk screen, to Baxter, his glossy, expensive shoes propped on his desk as he talked on his ’link. Carmichael and Santiago, heads together at her desk, arguing in undertones.

They still had the holiday decorations up, the ridiculous and scrawny tree, the odd assembly of symbolism from Kwanzaa corn to the dented menorah to the creepily amusing zombie Santa.

And the sign that hung now—and as far as she was concerned would always hang—over the break-room door.

NO MATTER YOUR RACE, CREED, SEXUAL ORIENTATION OR POLITICAL AFFILIATION, WE PROTECT AND SERVE. BECAUSE YOU COULD GET DEAD.

That’s just the way it was, she thought as Reineke came out of the break room with more bad coffee.

She went back to her office, where she had really good coffee. She considered, as she never had, that she could install Roarke’s real and excellent blend in the break room. But then she rejected the notion as temporarily sentimental.

You just didn’t go around breaking tradition of bad cop break-room coffee because you felt good about having good cops under your command.

Besides, they’d lose the fun of sneaking in and stealing it from her AutoChef. Who was she to spoil their good time?