Page 26 of Bonded in Death

“With respect, Loo, bullshit. Come after one of us, come after all. Especially the boss. Whatever you need, we’re in.”

Apparently, murder had paused long enough so all her detectives and most of her uniforms were in-house. And every one of them looked at her with fire in their eyes.

“I’m not the one who’s dead,” she reminded them. Then relented.

“Giovanni Rossi, lured to New York from Rome, possibly throughsome connection to the Urbans. Gassed in the limo that picked him up. Phosphine gas.”

“I know what that is.” Detective Carmichael lifted a finger. “I aced chemistry. That’s been on the banned list practically as long as I’ve been alive.”

“That’s what he used. Rossi, possible code name Wasp, seventy-nine, did at least some cyber tech during the Urbans. This may or may not be connected. The man who killed him, either hired to do so or on his own, is as yet unidentified. EDD’s working that. There are, according to the message on the card, another seven targets—also unknown and unnamed. Three others, Fawn, Hawk, Rabbit, are presumed dead. For a total, with the killer or the one who hired him, of twelve.

“Peabody will send you all the data we have. Nobody works it if they have another case. And that includes you, Detective Sergeant.”

He just grunted.

“I’m not a target.” For now, she qualified in her head. “He wants me in pursuit. I’m going to accommodate him. Now, for Christ’s sake, get back to work. I don’t, under the circumstances, want to kick your asses.

“Peabody, send the data, then my office.”

“Sir.”

Trueheart, young, earnest, but not as green as he’d once been, raised his hand.

“Detective.”

“They specify you in pursuit, they get all of us. Sir.”

Baxter, his trainer, his partner, his friend, just beamed with pride. “Kid speaks truth.”

“Fine. That’s fine. But any of you catch a case, you pursue that first. You’re paid to protect and serve the people of New York, not your lieutenant.”

“Can do fucking both,” Jenkinson muttered.

“So say we all.” This from Santiago.

Eve just walked to her office.

She wouldn’t have her bullpen treating her like a victim.

She wasn’t. Once she had been. But now she headed a team of exceptional cops, and was anything but a victim.

And yet, she had to appreciate the one-for-all sentiment.

As long as no investigation got the short straw in the meantime.

She programmed coffee, then sat to scan her incoming.

And sitting, she studied the photo of the gas canister.

It looked old, she realized. Like something she’d see in a museum. But, as Spooner had said, very clean. No dents, no rust, no dust, with the skull and crossbones carefully added. And with a more contemporary style remote trigger attached.

An Urbans-era canister of toxic gas with a remote from now.

The killer, or his accomplices, had the skill or training to weaponize the canister, to remove and replace the ceiling of the limo and install it. To fix it so the gas would discharge into the back of the limo.

And only into the back.

Seal the doors, seal the privacy window. Install the ears and eyes to watch the kill. A lot of time, a lot of trouble taken, with the flourish of the drawing.

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