Ceremony in Death - J. D. Robb [75]
“You lied to me.” There was a quaver in his voice that came as much from hurt as anger. But his eyes were flat and cold. “You fucking lied to me. I trusted you. You’ve been investigating Frank behind my back. Over his own dead body.”
There was no point in denying, less in asking how he’d found out. She’d known he would. “There was going to be an internal investigation. Whitney wanted me to clear him, and that’s what I’ve done.”
“Internal investigation my ass. Nobody was cleaner than Frank.”
“I know that, Feeney. I was—”
“But you investigated. You went through his records, and you did it around me.”
“That’s the way it had to be.”
“Bullshit. I goddamn trained you. You’d still be in uniform if I hadn’t put you here. And you back stab me.” He stepped closer, fists clenched at his sides.
She preferred him to use them.
“You’ve got Alice’s file open, suspected homicide. She was my goddaughter, and you don’t tell me you think some son of a bitch killed her? You block me out of the investigation, you lie to me. You looked right in my face and lied to me.”
Her stomach had gone to ice. “Yes.”
“You think she’d been drugged and raped and murdered, and you don’t take me in?”
He’d gotten into the records, the reports, she realized. They’d been sealed and coded, but that wouldn’t have stopped him if he’d gotten a whiff. And, she decided, he’d gotten one the night before, over Wineburg’s body.
“I couldn’t,” she said in a flat voice. “Even if I hadn’t been under orders, I couldn’t. You were too close. You can’t objectively assist on an investigation involving family.”
“What the hell do you know about family?” he exploded and made her jerk.
Yes, she’d have preferred his fists.
“Orders?” he continued, bitterness spewing out and scalding her. “Fucking orders? Is that your line, Dallas? Is that your reason for treating me like some lame rookie? ‘Take a vacation, Feeney. Use my rich husband’s fancy house in Mexico.’” His lips peeled back in a sneer. “That would have been fine for you, wouldn’t it? Get me out of your way, shuffle me off and out from underfoot because I’m useless to you on this one.”
“No. God, Feeney—”
“I’ve gone through doors with you.” His voice was abruptly quiet, and made her throat burn. “I trusted you. I’d have put my back up against yours anytime, anyplace. But no more. You’re good, Dallas, but you’re cold. The hell with you.”
She said nothing when he walked out, leaving her door swinging open. Could say nothing. He’d nailed it, she decided. And he’d nailed her.
“Dallas.” Peabody rushed the door. “I couldn’t—”
Eve cut her off, simply lifting a finger, turning her back. Slowly, with slow even breaths, she pulled her guts back in. Even then, they ached. She could still smell him in the room. That stupid cologne his wife always bought him.
“We’re going to do a follow-up sweep of Wineburg’s townhouse. Get your gear.”
Peabody opened her mouth, closed it again. Even if she’d known what to say, she didn’t imagine it would be welcome. “Yes, sir.”
Eve turned back. Her eyes were blank, cool, composed. “Then let’s move.”
chapter thirteen
She was in a pisser of a mood by the time she got home. She’d turned Wineburg’s townhouse inside out, reworking every step already taken by the sweepers. For three hours she and Peabody had searched closets and drawers, run logs, and traced ’link records.
She found two dozen all-but-identical dark suits, shoes so glossy she’d seen her own scowl reflected in the tips, an incredibly boring collection of music discs. Though he’d had a lock box, the contents hadn’t been very illuminating. Two thousand in cash, another ten in credits, and an extensive collection of hard-core pornographic videos might have given some insight into the man, but no solid leads toward his killer.
He’d kept no personal diary, and his appointment book listed times and dates and very little about the content of any meeting, personal or professional. His financial records were ordered and precise, as one might expect from a man who dealt with money as an occupation. All expenses