Payback in Death, page 19
“Good cardio,” Peabody repeated. “And I can feel the water weight pouring off.”
“Apparently real men live in dumps with no soundproofing and crap climate control.”
“And that smell like a G&G dumpster.”
When they came out on five, the heat dropped marginally, and the noise escalated. She heard the wild, fake laughter of a screen comedy, and some kid shrieking, It’s mine! It’s mine!
Behind Oglebee’s door, silence.
Over it a security cam—a damn good one, she noted.
And on it, double police locks and a sign that read:
If You’re Selling Something, Looking For A Handout,
Pushing God Crap Or Liberal Bullshit
Fuck Off!
“See, didn’t I say he sounded nice?”
Eve tapped the sticker just above the locksets that proclaimed him a proud member of the Men for Freedom militia.
“And a nutcase.”
She pressed the buzzer. Then leaned on it until she heard someone inside curse.
He shouted through the closed door, “Can’t you bitches read?”
“Can you?” Eve held her badge up for the camera.
He opened the door enough for it to crack against a double security chain. “The fuck you want?”
“A few minutes of your time here, or considerably more of it at Central. You get to choose.”
“I don’t have to open this door unless you got a warrant. I know my rights.”
“No, you don’t have to. I can get a warrant, and if I have to take the time to do so, I’ll probably be irritated. I tend to take more time to get things done when I’m irritated.”
“I can see what my lawyer has to say about that.”
“You can. If you want to contact him now, we’ll wait. Since we wouldn’t want to waste the taxpayers’ time, we’ll get that warrant while we do. Which will now include a search of the premises, since the distinctive smell of Zoner’s emanating from your apartment. Or we can come in and have a conversation.”
He snorted. “Shit. You think I’m worried about getting busted for Zoner? For my personal use?”
Cliché or not, she thought, he had beady eyes. She figured they suited him.
“Since you’ve been busted, twice, for possession with intent to distribute, yeah, you might want to be a little worried about a third bust. Up to you.”
“Neither bust stuck.”
She just smiled. “Bet I can make this one stick. Or, we have a simple, civilized conversation on another matter.”
“What matter?”
Enough, Eve thought. “Open the door, Mr. Oglebee, or I get that warrant.”
He slammed the door, but the security chain rattled.
When the door opened again, she got a good look at him.
Paunchy, getting doughy around the jowls—and trying to hide that with a full beard that needed grooming. He wore his medium brown hair in a military high and tight.
He wore a T-shirt of the Confederate battle flag, and apparently without irony, had the Don’t Tread on Me symbol tattooed on his right bicep.
In his bare feet he stood about an inch shorter than Eve and, from the look in his cloudy blue eyes, didn’t care for that. Or her.
He made that clear by snarling, “Females got no business being cops. Now, what the fuck you want? I’m working.”
“Your shift starts at five.”
“My real work.” He jabbed a finger toward a workstation and the state-of-the-art system on it.
Damn good furniture, too, she noted, for a delivery guy in a low-end apartment in a crappy building.
“Your blogging?”
“Females aren’t my audience. Unless they know their place.”
“In the interest of time, we’ll let that ride.” He smirked; she ignored it. “Your father was on the job.”
“That’s right. He was a hero. Put his life on the line every freaking day. Took no shit from anyone.”
“He also took bribes and kickbacks from the Lorenzo family, which included individuals he was sworn to investigate.”
Flags of angry red streaked across Oglebee’s face, a wildfire over the bushy beard. “That’s a dirty lie, a lie made up by that IAB stooge because my father was better than him. Better than all of them.”
“By IAB stooge I assume you mean Captain Martin Greenleaf.”
“Lying bastard, no sense of loyalty. No respect for the blue line. My father had eighteen years on the force, he risked his life to make sure the people of this city were protected, and that son of a bitch hounded him into the grave. Sure, he took money—that’s how he gained their trust so he could build a solid case and take them down.”
“Is that what he told you?”
“That’s what I know!”
“Do you also know that Captain Greenleaf was killed on Sunday night?”
His smile spread. “Yeah, I heard. About fucking time. Took himself out’s what I heard, because he couldn’t live anymore with the guilt of ruining so many real cops. Real men, like my old man.”
“You heard incorrectly. Homicide, not suicide.”
“Yeah, you’d say that. Covering it up. That’s what your type does.”
“Female cops?” Peabody wondered.
“Females who get badges and get rank because they put out. How many blow jobs did it take for you to make lieutenant?” he asked Eve. “Somebody popped you a couple good ones there. Looks like you like it rough.”
Peabody said, “Uh-oh,” but Eve shook her head.
“Whereabouts, Sunday night, between eight and ten P.M.”
Something flickered in his eyes, flickered before he glanced away. “Like you said, my shift starts at five. I’m five to midnight.”
“And if we go back downstairs, your supervisor and the log will verify you were on Sunday night?”
“So it’s my night off.” He shifted his stance, spread his legs.
“Whereabouts,” Eve repeated. “Eight to ten P.M.”
“Working. Right over there.”
“Did you see anyone or speak to anyone, did anyone drop by who can verify you were home during that time frame?”
“I said I was fucking working.”
“That would be a no. Have you ever been to Captain Greenleaf’s apartment?”
“Why the hell would I? We ain’t pals.”
“His building’s in your delivery area.”
“So what? That doesn’t prove anything.”
“When I calculate the odds of you delivering to that building within the twenty-two months of your employment, they strike me as pretty good. You’ve got motive, you had opportunity, and your line of work offers a means. That’s what people like me call a hat trick.”
“That’s bullshit. You’re trying to come for me like Greenleaf did my father. What, did Greenleaf bang some lame slut back then and she popped you out? Or maybe you just like banging old men.”
“Jesus,” Peabody snapped. “You’re really completely vile.”
“I speak the truth!” He slammed his fist into his open palm as if that proved it. “I speak for men everywhere who know how to be men, and not soy-latte-sipping, limp-dick pussies. Real men who are damn well going to take back the power from the frigid bitches and the queers and—”
“I bet you haven’t been laid without paying for it your whole pathetic, narrow-minded, whiny little life.”
Those red flags turned dangerously toward purple as he snarled at Peabody. “You get out. Both you cunts get out. Get your fucking warrant, and I’ll get my fucking lawyer. We’ll see who comes out.”
“I’d say that concludes this conversation.” Eve took Peabody’s arm. “You’d be smart to get that lawyer, because we’re not done.” She nudged Peabody to the door and through it before she turned. And gestured toward his shirt.
“You know, they lost. But it tracks a loser would wear a loser’s shirt.”
In the hallway she gestured for the stairs. “You know how sexy you look when you’re angry, Peabody. Now he only wants you more.”
“God!” Peabody made a sound between a laugh and a groan. “I’m sorry. You weren’t finished, and I just snapped.”
“No, I was finished. We weren’t going to get any more out of him. Not there and then.”
“He could’ve done it, Dallas. Motive, means, opportunity, like you said.”
“Means is a little up in the air, but with a solid partner, yeah, he could’ve done it. Or he could just be as full of hot, nasty air as this stairwell.”
“Something off with him—more than his general fuckery.” Peabody sent a last snarl up the stairwell. “How does he afford a D and C system like that? And that couch? That’s going to go for two grand—McNab and I’ve looked at a lot of furniture since the Great House Project. The entertainment screen? Top of the line. He’s got champagne stuff in a rotgut, home-brew apartment. How does he afford it on what he makes at the G&G?”
“That’s what we’re going to find out.”
As they walked back onto the sidewalk, she took out her ’link. “By tagging Roarke and asking him to dig into Oglebee’s finances.”
“Ah, I wouldn’t tag him.”
“Why not? He volunteered—and it’s fun for him. Plus, nobody goes deeper faster.” She paused on that with the image of the weenie and ginny in mind. “That wasn’t a sexual reference.”
“Bet it could be, but I’ll let it slide. That’s why,” Peabody said, and pointed to Eve’s face. “He’s going to see you got punched, then he’ll think about that, worry until you’re home. If he sees it at home, it cuts out the next couple hours. You should just text.”
Eve got back in the car. “That’s a good catch. That’s a very good catch.”
“That’s what partners are for.”
“Is that what they’re for? And here I thought it was for getting pissed when their partner got accused of giving out BJs and/or banging superior officers with about four decades on them.”
“That, too. You were pissed.”
“Oh yeah. Everything about him pissed me off, and we’re going to make him sorry for it.”
She texted Roarke.
When and if you have time, and want the entertainment, financials on Steven R. Oglebee. Got a strong feeling you won’t have to dig very deep. May have more later, but he’s a standout.
She added his data and address.
“Let’s go write all this up.” She pulled out into traffic. “And we’ll see who Oglebee worked with during his last few years on the job. See if we can pull any more on the son. He’s not clean, Peabody.”
“No, he’s not. If you take the on-the-job Oglebee, I can push on the list. We should be able to pull out at least a couple more. McNab and I could take one or two on the way home.”
“That works. We eliminated more, and we’ve got one possible. Focusing on the suicide angle’s still the best method.”
When her ’link signaled a text, she called it up on her in-dash.
Just coming out of a meeting and going into another. After that, I could use some entertainment. We’ll see what I can find before you get home.
Thanks. In the field, heading back to Central to tie some things up. See you later.
“It’s nice being with someone who gets the job,” Peabody commented.
“Yeah, I guess. No,” Eve corrected. “I know it is.”
As she pulled into the garage, she flashed back to that morning. “It’s got to help if the cop side of it isn’t a complete asshole.”
“You’re thinking of Lansing.”
“Among others.”
“You really want to wand that lip again, ice down one more time before you get home.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Then she frowned as they walked to the elevator. “He kept a file on me, starting about the time Nadine published the Icove book.”
“Jealous, probably. And convinced himself Nadine bribed you or something. Like maybe you and Nadine had a hot affair.”
“Oh please.” But that stopped her. “I wonder.”
“I was joking about that part.”
“I just wonder,” she repeated, and tagged Nadine.
“Dallas, why are you always getting smacked in the face?”
“Keeps me mean and ready. Detective Lansing, IAB. Do you know him?”
“Lansing? I don’t…” She shook back her streaky hair, angled her head as her foxy green eyes narrowed. “Oh yeah. I remember him. John, Jack—no, Joe. Joe Lansing, IAB.”
“How?”
“He hit on me, pretty hard. Right after I got the crime beat, and I was doing a follow-up on internal investigations at the NYPSD. So, what, like four years ago—something like that. He didn’t want to take no. I don’t date cops—conflict of interest. Seems to me he was like nobody has to know. On top of the no for the first reason, I didn’t like him. I mean he’s good to look at, but I just didn’t like him. And on top of that, it came out he was married, so absolutely no.”
“Did he keep at it?”
“For a while. Tagged me a couple times. Even came by my place once—and that’s when, if I’m remembering right, I told him I’d report him if he didn’t back off. He got pissed, but he backed off. Why?”
“He’s the one who punched me in the face. Now I’ve got the reason why.”
“He punched you because I turned him down four years ago?” Nadine fluffed at her hair. “I know my own devastating charm, but … that’s a stretch.”
Satisfied, Eve got on the elevator. “Because that, then you and I have a professional and personal relationship. You wrote a big-ass bestseller about one of my cases. He’s been keeping a file on me.”
Amusement turned to mild outrage. “Well, for God’s sake. I’m sorry he punched you. I still wouldn’t have gotten naked with him, but sorry.”
“No need. It just made me itchy not knowing exactly why he went off.”
“Give me some details. Did you deal with him due to the Greenleaf investigation? I want to—”
“Tag IAB,” Eve told her. And clicked off.
“You should tell Mira what Nadine just told you. Whitney, too.”
Eve nodded as the door opened and more cops piled on. “Trust me.”
Chapter Fourteen
Eve went straight to her office and wrote up the new information on the investigation, then did a separate report to Mira and Whitney on Lansing.
Satisfied, she got coffee, put her boots on the desk, and took some thinking time.
One way or the other, she decided, Oglebee had something to hide—and a lot of rage he didn’t bother to hide. The suicide factor weighed against him. But she wondered if he was capable of holding that rage in for years before he acted on it.
Maybe, maybe, she considered. Especially if there was some trigger within the last year—either in Greenleaf’s life or Oglebee’s.
It’s time he paid, she mused. Yeah, she could see that. Pushing there, she began to dig deeper into his background, his travel, the medicals she could access, employment.
The harder she looked at his employment, the more certain she became Roarke would find something on him.
But an illegal source of income, tax evasion, whatever he was into didn’t equal murder.
She set him aside and went back to her list.
She’d culled two more possibles when Baxter rapped on her doorjamb.
“Trueheart and I are clear, boss. We could assist until otherwise with the suicide cops. I got a vested—get it?—interest.”
“Ha. What went down with Lansing had less to do with Greenleaf than it did me.”
“And still. Son of a bitch used a dead cop as an excuse to go after you, and he added me in.”
“Have Peabody pass five to Trueheart. I’ll send you five. If you catch one, pass them back.”
“That’ll work.” He waved a finger toward her face. “You ought to ice down again.”
“I keep hearing that.”
She kept at it. When she found one more possible, she got up, rearranged her board. Then sat another moment studying it until she got an incoming from Mira.
I’ve spoken with Nadine Furst, acquired more details re Lansing. I’ve arranged a psych eval. You should know the PA has charged him with felony assault and assault with a weapon, possession of an illegal weapon, and other related charges. He has retained counsel through his rep, and said counsel’s petition for release on his own recognizance was denied. Bail also denied until a full psychiatric evaluation.
Okay then, Eve thought. The PA was pushing it all the way. They’d deal at some point, but Lansing would likely get five to ten—closer to the ten if the PA kept up the push.
Either way, he’d blown up his career, would lose his freedom.
And because a woman had turned him down.
Not that simple, she admitted. Not nearly that simple, but another kind of excuse.
Maybe he’d been a decent cop once, she thought. Maybe. But she didn’t care enough to take the time to scroll back through his history.
Once again, she set him aside, and this time got up and walked to the bullpen. She had three, and she could try to interview them all before she called it for the day.
“I’ve got three. I’m going to try to round them up, then work from home.”
“I got one and a half,” Peabody told her. “Half because the second’s a stretch. But I’d like to follow up just in case.”
“Do that. Take McNab. Feeney sent another couple. Nothing yet on the weapon, but a couple more possible conversations. We’ll start there tomorrow. I want to look them over. I’ll send you the addresses where we’ll start.”
“I’ve been through three,” Baxter told her, “but none of them sing.”
“I think I might have one.” From his desk, Trueheart sent Eve one of his earnest looks. “I don’t know if it sings, Lieutenant, but it hums.”
“Listen to you.” Baxter grinned at him. “Good one.”
“Hum the tune,” Eve told him.
“Ah, Lucy Millan. Detective, SVU. It’s twenty years back, LT, but it feels like a fit. She killed her husband—second husband. Found out he was sexually abusing her daughter. The girl was fourteen. She stunned him, beat him, trussed him up, weighed him down, and dumped him in the Hudson River.”
