In death 57 payback in.., p.3
In Death 57 - Payback in Death, page 3
She badged him as they walked up the short steps to the doors.
“Lieutenant.”
“What do you know, Officer?”
“My partner and I responded to a nine-one-one by Lieutenant Webster. Ambulance also requested, but the victim was DOS. Lieutenant Webster ordered me to take the entrance door, and my partner to remain on scene with him to ensure it remained secure. DB is male, mid-seventies, at a desk in what appears to be a home office. No visible signs of forced entry.”
“Stand by.”
She went in, barely glanced at the pair of elevators before taking the stairs.
“He was smart to have the uniform stay with him on scene,” she commented. “Smarter maybe if he’d just called it in, then stepped back, but smart enough.”
“And smart enough to ask for you if he suspects foul play.”
“We’ll see about that.”
On three, she walked to the apartment. It had a door cam—but Greenleaf was a cop, after all—and a solid set of locks. She pressed the buzzer.
Webster answered, and she thought: Fuck. He’s a mess.
His light blue eyes held nothing but grief and despair, and his body language told her he was using every ounce of self-control to hold it in. Rather than crowning his narrow face, his brown hair looked as if he’d dragged a garden rake through it.
Casual dress, she noted—so he’d changed from work before he’d come here.
“Dallas. I’m sorry, but I needed the best. Martin deserves the best.”
“Okay. Step back, Webster.”
“Sorry,” he said again. “Roarke, I appreciate you coming. I know you weren’t on the roll, Dallas, but … It looks like suicide, but not in a million years. Not in two million. I need to tell you—”
“Nothing yet.” His grief aside, she cut him off. She had to. “Nothing. I want you to stay out of my way. I’ll talk to you after I look at the scene and the body.”
“Just let me—”
“No. Officer, stay with the witness. Where’s the body?”
The uniform stepped forward, gestured. “In there, Lieutenant. The MTs examined the body, but didn’t disturb the scene. My partner and I arrived approximately four minutes after the nine-one-one.”
The apartment opened into a living area, with a short foyer holding a catchall table. She noted a bag on it, a six-pack of upscale brew inside.
“I—”
“Not now,” she told Webster, and moved into the living area with its sofa and plumped pillows, a recliner, a wall screen, some floral prints on the wall, a pair of shoes by a chair.
Neat enough, not obsessive. Lived-in, and lived long.
A kitchen area tucked behind a half wall to the left with a small dining area. It sparkled clean, no question, but still more lived-in and lived long to her eye. A bowl of summer fruit on the counter. Mugs on an open shelf above an old-model AC, a cooktop over a stove beside it.
Someone probably cooked on it.
And to her right, as she stepped forward, what might have been a small bedroom at one point and now served as a den/office.
There, at a desk painted black, Captain Greenleaf slumped.
“I—”
“Later, Webster. I need to examine the body and the scene, and you need to step back.”
Roarke handed Eve her field kit. “Why don’t we take a walk,” he said to Webster, “and you can tell me. We’ll let the lieutenant do what’s best for your friend.”
“I haven’t contacted Beth yet—his wife. I didn’t want—”
Eve turned at that. “Where is she?”
“A ladies’ night, a regular thing. She would’ve left about eight-thirty, I guess.”
“Okay, let’s leave that for now. Take a walk.”
“Dallas—just let me say this, damn it. I know what it looks like, but it’s not.” Grief soaked him. Face, body, voice. “It’s just not.”
“Let me see what it looks like, then we’ll talk. For now, stay out of the way. You want me to stand for him? Let me stand for him.”
She walked into the crime scene and, to discourage any more conversation, shut the door behind her.
Greenleaf slumped in his desk chair like a man taking a quick nap—though he wouldn’t wake from this one. On the floor by the chair lay a police-issue stunner, and she could see the marks from it on the side of his neck.
Deep marks, she noted. Deep enough to break and burn the skin.
On the wall screen, the Mets and the Pirates battled it out. Bottom of the seventh, 0–1, and the Pirates with a man on first. Since his chair faced the screen, logically he’d watched at least some of the game, or had intended to.
He had a data and communication unit on the desk, still running. The message on the screen read:
Beth, I’m sorry, but I just can’t go on this way. Too many good cops’ lives ruined, their families broken. My fault. Forgive me because I can’t forgive myself.
“Yeah, Webster, I see what it looks like.”
She opened her field kit to formally identify the body, and pressed Greenleaf’s left thumb to her Identi-pad.
“Victim is identified as Greenleaf, Martin, retired captain, Internal Affairs Bureau, NYPSD. Age seventy-six, resident of this address.”
She took out her gauges. “Time of death, twenty-one-eighteen.”
She crouched down, recorded the weapon. “A police-issue stunner recovered on scene on the floor, right side of the chair. Identifying code has been removed.”
She checked it—on full—then set her first marker for the sweepers.
“The victim sat with his back to the doorway leading from the living area of the apartment and facing the wall screen. Both the wall screen and the computer activated. No visible signs of struggle, no visible signs of violence to the body but the stunner burns, which indicate direct contact with same at the throat. The stunner is set on high.”
She shifted to change the angle of the recording.
“Victim has a wrist unit, left wrist, and a band style ring on the third finger of his left hand.”
Carefully, she checked Greenleaf’s pockets. “Wallet, right front pocket of his trousers, containing…” She flipped through.
“ID, license to drive, credit card, four photos, and … thirty-six dollars in cash. A ’link, passcoded,” she said after trying to access, “and a glass of unidentified liquid, with ice…” She bent close, sniffed. “Smells like tea, lab to confirm contents, on the right side of the computer screen. The glass is about half-full, on a coaster.”
Maybe he added some courage to the tea, she thought. But.
Why does a retired cop intending to self-terminate get himself some iced tea, turn on the ball game, and use the comp to write his last words when there’s an actual pen and a pad of paper on the desk?
“What appears to be a suicide note on the monitor of the D and C on the desk. Current information indicates the victim was alone in the apartment at TOD.”
Wouldn’t be the first cop to end his watch by pressing a stunner to his throat, and wouldn’t be the last, she thought.
And yet, it was all pretty damn tidy, wasn’t it? A note that says basically nothing before he offs himself while his wife’s out. Married a long time, she considered. Would he want her to come home and find him like this?
Depends on the marriage, she decided, so she’d go down that road.
Closed window—closed and locked—and the aging temperature regulator pumped and buzzed some. Made some noise along with the color commentary on the game.
His back to the door. And the ball game on-screen. Ice melting in a glass that was likely tea.
She went through the desk, found his memo book. Appointments listed for the next several weeks, a note to remind him to buy flowers for his wife—anniversary in ten days, dinner booked at a swank place nearby.
He had 47 years! inside a big heart.
She stepped out, walked through the apartment, into the bedroom. Seriously clean but a little less tidy, with signs of someone hurriedly dressing—or someone who’d changed their mind about wardrobe a couple of times.
Some facial enhancements and grooming tools on the bathroom counter, another discarded pair of shoes—female, this time—right next to the closet door.
And two windows leading to a fire escape. One locked, one not. Curious, she walked through, checked all the other windows. All locked. Just that one, in the bedroom.
She went back, opened it, peered up, peered down.
In the closet, a shared one, she found Greenleaf’s clothes, very organized. His wife’s—she assumed—not as much.
Ladies’ night, she thought. Choosing and rejecting outfits.
In the bedroom drawers, the same deal and, in the nightstands, some electronics, some night creams, a bottle of meds for helping with an erection, and some lube.
Since both were about half-full, she assumed the couple had remained sexually active.
In the kitchen a note stuck to the friggie.
Snacks inside for you and Don, sweetie. See you both in a couple hours. Don’t drink too much brew!
She’d drawn hearts at the start and finish of the note.
She walked back to the body.
“Okay, Captain. Okay.”
She contacted the sweepers, the morgue—requested Chief Medical Examiner Morris. No need to bring Peabody in yet, she decided. The morning was soon enough for that.
She texted Roarke instead.
Bring him back.
While she waited, she checked the time stamp on the suicide note. Within a minute of TOD, so that could go either way.
Back in the kitchen, she checked the AutoChef. It looked like the couple had shared a meal of linguine with cream sauce and a salad. In the friggie—well stocked—she noted the snack tray. Cheese, pickles, carefully sliced disks of a meat-like product, some sort of dip, some salsa.
A tray of crackers sat on the counter beside a bowl of chips and a pile of cocktail napkins.
Expecting Webster, no question, and that could go either way.
Let Webster find me, deal with it while Beth’s gone.
Or somebody didn’t expect a cop on scene minutes after TOD.
For now, she’d keep both possibilities wide open.
When she heard the door, she stepped out again.
“Have a seat, Webster.” She gestured to a chair out of eyeline with the body. “Run it through for me.”
“I’m going to start at the beginning, all right?”
Calmer now, she noted, and knew she had Roarke to thank for it.
“Go.”
“Martin came by to see me this afternoon. I’ve been off-planet for a week, so doing weekend work, flexing time. He thought we could have some lunch, catch up, but I was swamped. We just had some coffee at my desk.”
“What was his mood?”
“Good. Up. Fine. He talked some about his granddaughter’s Little League game, and just wanted to know how things were going with me. I had some things I wanted to talk to him about, and we didn’t have time then, so he said I should come over about nine or so because Beth had her girls’ night, and we could drink some brew—if I brought it—bullshit awhile.”
“He expected you.”
“That’s right. I didn’t get here until about nine-thirty. Had a lot to clear at Central, wanted to change, buy the brew.”
“How’d you get in?”
“I have a swipe and their passcode. I didn’t bother buzzing in downstairs, but he didn’t answer when I knocked. I just let myself in, figuring he didn’t hear me. He’s had some hearing issues off and on for the last year or so, and I heard the game on in his den. I called out.”
He took a moment, gathered himself.
“I set the brew down and, when I looked in his den, I saw him.”
“Did you touch anything?”
“His shoulder. His left shoulder. I didn’t touch the weapon, the monitor, anything else. I just put my hand on his shoulder because I couldn’t believe … Jesus.”
Webster covered his face with his hands as the words shook out of him. “I need a second.”
“You read the monitor.”
Face still covered, Webster nodded. Then he dropped his hands, and his eyes burned hot. “And it’s bullshit. It’s bullshit, Dallas. He’d never do this to Beth, to his kids, his grandkids. He wouldn’t do this to me. And he’d never take this way out.”
“Do you know if he had any medical issues other than his hearing?”
Now, as he shook his head, Webster dragged his hands through his hair.
“Nothing, not that he ever told me, or Beth told me—and she would if he didn’t. Slowing down, he’d say, and it pissed him off some. That’s bullshit about good cops, his fault. He honored the badge, do you get me?”
Webster’s voice hitched, then hardened.
“Yeah, he was a hard-ass, and straight down the line. If a cop smelled bad, he’d go after them all the way, and he taught me to do the same. It doesn’t make you popular, but it’s the job.
“It’s a setup, Dallas,” he insisted. “Martin wouldn’t do this. I know that without a fucking doubt.”
Right now, she thought, they needed facts. Not feelings.
“You say you knocked. How many times? How long did you wait before you came in?”
“I knocked twice. Slowing down, right? So I wanted to give him a minute. A minute, maybe a little less, and I swiped in. No more than about a minute.”
“Did you hear anything from inside?”
“No. Well, the game. I heard the game coming from his den, so figured he didn’t hear me knock over it.”
“Did anyone else know he expected you tonight?”
“I don’t know. Beth—he’d have told her, the way you do.”
He lifted his hands, dropped them again. Then linked them together as if he didn’t know what to do with them.
“I don’t know if he told anyone else, or why he would.”
“Describe your relationship with him.”
“He was my captain when I joined IAB, and until he retired. And he was the next thing to a father to me. My parents split when I was a kid, and my father didn’t have much interest. My mother remarried, and they didn’t have a lot of interest. Martin and Beth did. I have Christmas with them every year. I loved him, and I want whoever did this to him.”
“As of now I haven’t determined homicide. I’ve requested Morris, and the sweepers are on the way. You are not part of the investigation. You can’t be. You know that.”
She held up a hand before he could speak. “I’ll keep you in the loop. I can do that, but that’s all. Don’t get in my way.”
“I know you didn’t especially like him.”
Eyes flat, she spoke coolly. “Do you think that applies to my ability to investigate his death?”
“No. Absolutely no. That’s why I asked for you. Dallas, I need to be here for Beth. This is going to— They really loved each other. She needs somebody who loved him here. I don’t want to contact her, bring her home like this. I don’t want her to see him like this, or watch them carry him out in a body bag.”
“I need her statement. I need to interview her. She’s most likely the last person to see him alive.”
“He said she’d be home before midnight, earlier, probably. She just meets some friends once a month, and they drink wine and hang out for a couple hours.”
“Did you tell anyone you were coming here tonight?”
“I messaged Darcia. My door was open when Martin came by. Sure, somebody could’ve heard us set it up, but I didn’t say anything specifically to anyone.”
“Roarke, would you see about getting the security feed for the building, and the feed for this front door cam on this unit?”
She waited until he’d walked out.
“If there’s anything, any detail, any single thing you’re leaving out, softening up, shifting on me, spill it now, Webster, or I swear to God when I find out—and I will—I’ll slice you to pieces.”
Closing his eyes, he nodded. Then looked at her straight on.
“That’s why I wanted you on this. Exactly why. No. There’s nothing. I swear to God right back at you. What’s the TOD? In the loop, you said.”
“Twenty-one-eighteen.”
“Christ, Christ, I was probably walking in the door of the building, or on my way up five or ten minutes later. If I’d gotten here just a few minutes earlier—”
And she could see, literally see, his control crack. And so spoke briskly.
“Ifs don’t solve anything. Put it away. Did he say anything to you, even just shooting-the-shit cop stories about a threat?”
“No—” Backtracking, Webster waved a hand in the air. “I mean sure, before he retired. IAB cops get threats all the time, it’s part of the package. You get verbal bullshit, you get physical altercations. Mostly, it’s just blowing air, so you document and let it go. Same as you, Dallas, or any cop, but the difference is the threats and altercations are usually from other cops.
“We’re not popular,” he added with a shrug. “That’s how it goes.”
“Anything recent, anything specific?”
“No. Listen, he didn’t have to retire. He chose to. He told me it was time to, like, pass the torch. And he wanted time, more time to just be a husband, a dad, a grandfather.
“He liked being retired. Beth retired a few years after he did, and they did some traveling. They made noises about moving south, getting a place on the shore, buying a boat, but their family’s here, so they never followed through. The only time anything like threats came up is when we talked shop and it was: ‘Remember that asshole who said he’d cut out your rat heart with a dull knife and feed it to the other rats?’
“It was yesterday for him, Dallas, and he’d put in his time.”
At the knock, Eve rose, let in the sweepers. While she read them in, gave them her priorities, the morgue team arrived.
“Why don’t you wait in the kitchen?”
Webster shook his head. “He deserves someone who knew him, cared about him, to stand by.” Then he turned to her. “You’re calling it homicide.”
“Right now, it’s suspicious death. Where’s his service weapon?”
“He turned it in when he retired. I know he did because I was there.”
