“Did he get tight with anyone who worked there?”
“Not particularly. Like I said, he was a quiet guy. Friendly enough, but he didn’t hang with anyone in particular. He did the bartender thing. Watched, listened.”
“Do you keep a metal bat behind the bar?”
“It’s legal,” Rue said quickly, then paled. “Is that what—”
“Did Taj ever have occasion to use it or threaten to?”
“He never used it.” She rubbed her upper chest with the flat of her hand in long, soothing strokes. “He had it out once or twice, I guess. Tapped it on the bar as a deterrent. That’s mostly all you need, especially with a guy his size. The club’s upscale. We rarely have any real trouble there. I run a clean place, Lieutenant. Roarke won’t tolerate less.”
The preliminary report was straightforward, and for Eve, unsatisfactory. She had the facts. A dead cop, bludgeoned to death with serious overkill and the wild destruction that pointed to an addict popping on Zeus or some lethal combination of illegals. A sloppy attempt to cover with the look of attempted robbery, a missing palm-link, and thirty loose credit chips.
The victim was apparently moonlighting to supplement his family income, had no blemishes or commendations on his service record, was well liked by his associates, and loved by his family. He had not, at least as far as she had uncovered, lived above his means, engaged in extramarital affairs, or been involved with a hot case that could have led to his death.
On the surface, it looked like just bad luck. But she was damned if that suit fit.
She brought his ID photo up on her screen, studied it. Big guy, with a proud look in his eyes. Firm jaw, wide shoulders.
“Somebody wanted you out, Kohli. Who’d you piss off?”
She shifted, sat up again. “Computer, run probability. Current case file, scheming cause of death and ME prelim, running primary’s report on victim. What is the probability that victim Kohli knew his assailant?”
Working . . . Probability, given known data and primary’s report is ninety-three point four percent that victim Kohli knew his assailant.
“Yeah, well, good for me.” She leaned forward, scooped her fingers through her hair. “Who do cops know? Other cops, weasels, bad guys, family. Neighbors. Who do bartenders know?” She let out a short laugh. “Every fucking body. Which hat were you wearing for your meet this morning, Detective?”
“Lieutenant?” Peabody poked her head in the door. “I’ve got Kohli’s current case load. There’s no record of him asking for files other than apply to his open logs. I ran into a trip with the financials. Everything’s jointly owned, so we need a warrant or spousal permission to poke around.”
“I’ll take care of it. Full service record?”
“Right here. Nothing special caught my eye. He was in on a big bust about six months ago. Some dealer named Ricker.”
“Max Ricker?”
“Yeah. Kohli was down in the feeding chain, mostly leg or drone work. He didn’t get the collar, that went to a Lieutenant Mills and Detective Martinez. They tied the warehouse of illegals to Ricker, got him indicted, but he slipped through. Still, they nailed six others in the cartel.”
“Ricker’s not the type to ruin his manicure by getting blood on the polish. But he wouldn’t think twice about paying for a hit, even on a cop.”
And the idea of it gave her a little ping of excitement. “Find out if Kohli testified. Seems to me it got to court before the whole business was dismissed on techs. See just what his part was in the bust. Get it from Captain Roth, and if she hassles you over it, pass her to me. I’ll be with the commander.”
Commander Whitney stood at his window while Eve reported on the status of her investigation. He had his big hands folded together behind his back and stared out at the sky traffic.
One of the new Cloud Dusters winged by close enough for him to see the color of its young pilot’s eyes and in direct violation of traffic codes.
Ballsy, Whitney thought absently, and stupid, he added as he heard the high, whining beep of the air patrol.
Busted, he thought. It should always be so easy to uphold the law.
When Eve fell silent behind him, Whitney turned. His face was dark and wide, his hair a close-cut military crop that was showing hints of gray. A big man with cool and sober eyes, he’d spent the first half of his career on the streets. Though he was spending the second half riding a desk, he hadn’t forgotten what it meant to strap on a weapon.
“Before I comment on your report, Lieutenant, I want to inform you that I’ve had communications from Captain Roth of the One twenty-eighth. She’s put in a formal request to have the Kohli homicide transferred to her squad.”
“Yes, sir. She indicated she would do so.”
“And your opinion of that request?”
“It’s understandable. And it’s emotional.”