Vendetta in Death (In Death 49)

She scanned the cops under her command, then looked up at the sign posted over the break room door.

NO MATTER YOUR RACE, CREED,

SEXUAL ORIENTATION, OR POLITICAL AFFILIATION,

WE PROTECT AND SERVE,* BECAUSE YOU COULD

GET DEAD.

*EVEN IF YOU WERE AN ASSHOLE.

That’s right, she thought, that’s fucking-A right. And every cop under her command would follow that goddamn perfect son of a bitching motto.

And that’s what she was doing right now.

She walked out, and into Interview A.

She noted both Peabody and Pepperdine had fizzies, and half wished she’d fought a Pepsi out of Vending.

Jacie Pepperdine, age twenty-seven, appeared to be a stunning example of a few generations of race mixing. She had Asian tilted eyes in ferocious green, skin the color of gold-dusted caramel, madly curling hair in jet-black she’d accented with caramel streaks, a long, narrow nose, a long, full-lipped mouth.

“Ms. Pepperdine, this is my partner, Lieutenant Dallas.”

“Okay. Look, if we could just get to whatever this is, I have someplace to be by noon.”

She had a voice like velvet, which, Eve thought, explained why she made part of her living singing in joints—the other half waitressing in them.

“Sure. We appreciate you coming in. You belong to a support group called Women For Women.”

Jacie’s mildly curious expression went to stone. “That’s a private, anonymous group. You have no right to poke in.”

“Maybe you noticed you’re in Homicide,” Eve said easily. “We’re conducting an investigation into three connected murders. Those murders also connect with the support group.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Do you pay any attention to the media?”

“I work. When I’m not working, I’m going to auditions. When I’m not working or going to auditions, I sleep.”

“Nigel McEnroy, the first victim, drugged and raped multiple women, including two who belonged to your group.”

“You want me to feel sorry a rapist is dead? Why didn’t you arrest the bastard?”

“Maybe if one of his victims had reported him, we would have. The second victim, Thaddeus Pettigrew, was the ex-husband of one of your members. He left his wife for the woman—younger woman—he cheated on her with, and through some legal manipulation, forced her to sell the business she’d founded—with himself reaping most of the profits.”

Eve paused, watching Jacie’s face. “You know that story. You know that woman.”

In a gesture combining self-protection with defiance, Jacie sat back, crossed her arms. “I’m not discussing anything, and I mean anything, said in our group.”

“The third victim,” Eve continued, “Arlo Kagen, also the ex-husband of one of your members, physically and sexually assaulted his wife, threatened to harm their young son. Another story you know.”

“Same answer.”

“Okay. What’s your story?”

“I don’t know you. I don’t have to tell you my personal, private business. If that’s all—”

“Sit,” Eve snapped when Jacie rose. “We’ll start with your whereabouts on the three nights in question. Monday, Tuesday, and last night. Say, between the hours of nine P.M. and four A.M.”