Connections in Death (In Death 48)

“I did. She had a personal issue come up just last week, and is moving to East Washington to be with her son. I’m vetting the position again. Dr. Pickering was already a leading candidate when I went with Dr. Po.”

“Does she know that?”

“Unlikely. I can tell you she’s highly qualified, experienced, dedicated, comes strongly recommended. And has no criminal record.”

“That you found. Okay, okay,” she mumbled after his quiet stare. “If she had one, you’d have found it.” She shrugged with it. “Save me time then.”

“She’s the only daughter and second child. Three siblings. Her father did time—twice—for assault, for illegals. Her younger brother did time, as a juvenile, for theft, possession—and as an adult for the same. He belonged to the Bangers.”

“That’s bad business. Their turf’s narrowed, but they’re still bad business.”

“Most gangs are. He’s been out of prison two years—just—completed rehab and, by all accounts, is clean and no longer affiliated with the Bangers.”

Eve put that aside for later. Though the Bangers weren’t as big and bad as they’d once been, they didn’t just let go, either.

“Her father died in a prison incident when she was fifteen,” Roarke continued, “and her mother self-terminated shortly thereafter. From that point—and reading between the lines, to a great extent prior—they were raised by their maternal grandmother. They grew up in the Bowery,” Roarke added. “The roughest part of it.”

“Banger turf.”

“Yes. The oldest brother went to trade school, and has his own business—plumbing—in Tribeca. He’s married, has a three-year-old daughter and another child on the way. The youngest is in law school, Columbia, on scholarship. The middle brother’s been gainfully employed at Casa del Sol, Lower West Side, as a cook—a trade he apparently learned in prison—since he got out. He reports to his parole officer, attends reg

ular AA meetings and, with his sister, volunteers at a local shelter twice a month.”

“The Bangers don’t let go.”

“The Bangers are in the Bowery. Rochelle lives with her brother in a two-bedroom apartment in the Lower West, well outside their territory. She had a hard and difficult childhood—something you and I know a great deal about. She overcame. It’s hardly a coincidence she devoted her skills to the emotional welfare of children.”

She knew his tones, his inflections. Knew him.

“You’re going to hire her.”

“It strikes me as a happy twist of fate we happened to meet her tonight. I’d already planned to contact her Monday morning to set up an interview. If I’m satisfied after that, and she’s interested, I’ll offer her the position, yes.”

He shifted, trailed a finger down the shallow dent in her chin. “Unless you give me a solid reason not to.”

She hissed out a breath. “I can’t. I’m not going to knock her because one of her brothers was an asshole, because her father was another.”

Maybe it worried her a little. But Roarke had a point. Crack was a big boy.

2

To counteract the party, socializing, small talk, and fancy shoes, Eve had a quiet, off-duty Sunday. With no fresh murders landing in her lap, she spent the day sensibly. She slept late, banged Roarke like a hammer, ate crepes, took a three-mile virtual run on the beach, pumped iron until her muscles begged for mercy. To cap it off, she took a session with the master in the dojo, followed it up with a swim and pool sex.

Then she took a nap with the cat.

Afterward, she indulged herself with an hour on the shooting range—determined that next time she and Roarke went head-to-head there, she’d crush his fine Irish ass. Following a leisurely dinner by the fire, she snuggled up with that fine Irish ass and a bowl of butter-soaked popcorn to watch a vid where lots of stuff blew up.

To celebrate the end of a day without Dispatch butting in, she let Roarke bang her like a hammer. Then slept like a baby.

Refreshed, renewed, and feeling just a little guilty she’d chosen the nap instead of carving through her backlog of paperwork, she headed into Cop Central early on Monday.

Not early enough to avoid the snapping, snarling traffic or the average driver who lost any moderate skill behind the wheel due to a thin rain whipped by a blasting March wind. Still, she figured the nasty was just the thing to start off a day of cop work.

Plus, the ferocity of the wind grounded the ad blimps. It made a nice change to inch her way downtown without hearing the blasts about early spring sales and discounts on late winter cruises to wherever the hell.

Which was it, anyway? Early spring or late winter? Why couldn’t March make up its mind?

She could be an optimist and go with early spring. It wasn’t snowing or sleeting or shitting out ice. On the other hand, it was still freaking cold in that screaming wind, and those skies could decide to dump out snow anytime now.