by J. D. Robb
Someone didn’t, Eve thought.
“I believe him,” Peabody said as they finally left the crime scene. “That guy was cut off at the knees, and he honestly didn’t know anything or anyone that put Abner in the crosshairs.”
“Agreed, but a spouse doesn’t always know everything. We need to dig into Abner, his work, his habits, his hobbies. Any extramarital relationships.”
As she nodded, Peabody glanced back at the pretty brownstone with tulips blooming in its little front garden. “It’d be worse if, you know, it was just bad luck of the draw. If this was random.”
“A hell of a lot worse. The package was addressed specifically so we’ll look specifically. Let’s talk to the delivery person asap.”
Peabody programmed the address on the in-dash. “You feel okay, right?”
“I’m fine. Didn’t the vampires draw my blood and clear me?”
“Yeah, but I’ll feel better when they ID the toxin.” Peabody frowned out the window of the car. “He laid there for hours. The good of that is whatever it was dissipated, so we’re all not dead. The bad is he laid there for hours.”
“Yeah, and think about that. Have the delivery in the morning, knowing nobody’s going to go in there until late afternoon. It makes it look like a specific kill. Just Abner.”
As she pushed through traffic, Eve took a contact from Officer Shelby on her wrist unit. “What’ve you got, Shelby?”
“They tracked the package to a drop-off kiosk on West Houston, sir. It was logged in through the after-hours depository—that’s self-serve—at twenty-two hundred hours.”
“Security cam?”
“Yes, sir. And the cam had a glitch at twenty-one-fifty-eight until twenty-three-oh-two.”
“An idiot would call that a coincidence.”
“Yes, sir. Officer Carmichael, who is not an idiot, has requested EDD examine the security camera and feed at this depository. However, if the killer proves to be an idiot, she used her credit account, via her ’link, to pay for the overnight shipping. Said payment was charged to the account of a Brendina A. Coffman, age eighty-one, apartment 1A, 38 Bleecker Street.”
“We’ll check her out now. Good work, Shelby.”
Peabody didn’t have time to grab the chicken stick before Eve wheeled sharp around a corner to change direction.
“Get a warrant,” Eve ordered Peabody. “We need to look at Coffman’s credit history.”
“Brendina Coffman.” Peabody read off her PPC as Eve fought her way to Bleecker. “Married to Roscoe Coffman for fifty-eight years, lived at the current address for thirty-one years. A retired bookkeeper who worked for Loames and Gardner for—wow—fifty-nine years. No criminal in the last half century or so, but a couple of dings in her twenties. Disorderly conduct and simple assault. They have three offspring—male, female, male, ages fifty-six, fifty-three, and forty-eight. Six grandchildren from ages twenty-one to ten.”
“Start running the rest of them,” Eve ordered. “It’s not going to be an idiot,” she muttered. “We don’t have that kind of luck. But run them.”
“Okay, well, the oldest offspring is Rabbi Miles Coffman of Shalom Temple, married to Rebekka Greene Coffman for twenty-one years—and she teaches at the Hebrew school attached to the temple. They have three of the kids—twenty, eighteen, and sixteen, female, male, and male, respectively—nothing flagged on the kids, no criminal on the parents.”
With no available parking in sight, Eve double-parked, causing much annoyance on Bleecker. Ignoring it, she flipped up her On Duty light.
“Keep going,” Eve said as she got out, studied the sturdy old residential building. A triple-decker of faded brick, no graffiti, clean windows, some of them open to the cool spring evening.
“Marion Coffman Black, married to Francis Xavior Black, twenty-three years—no, twenty-four as of today; happy anniversary—is currently employed, as she has been for twenty years, as bookkeeper in the same firm as her mother was. Couple dings in her twenties for illegal protests, nothing since. Son, twenty-one, a student at Notre Dame, daughter, age nineteen, also at Notre Dame.”
“Hold that thought,” Eve advised as they approached the gray door of the entrance to 1A.
Decent security, she noted, but nothing fancy. She pressed the buzzer.
The woman who answered looked pretty good for eighty-one. She had a bubble of ink-black hair Eve figured wouldn’t move in a hurricane, lips freshly dyed stop-sign red, rosy cheeks, and eyes heavily shadowed and lashed.
She wore a deep blue cocktail dress with a high neck, long sleeves, and gave Eve and Peabody a frowning once-over from nut-brown eyes.
“We’re not buying.”
“Not selling,” Eve said, and held up her badge.
Brendina’s face went sheet white under the rosy. “Joshua!”
“No, ma’am.” Peabody spoke quickly. “It’s not about your son. Mrs. Coffman’s son Joshua’s on the job,” Peabody told Eve. “It’s not about Sergeant Coffman, ma’am.”
“Okay. Okay. What is it then?”
“If we could come in for a moment,” Eve began.
“We’re leaving—if Roscoe ever finishes primping.”
“We’ll try not to take much of your time.”
With a nod, Brendina stepped back to let them straight into a tidy living area. So tidy, Eve thought, dust motes must run in fear. The furniture was old, like owned since their marriage began, and polished to within an inch of its life. A half dozen fancy pillows smothered the sofa.
A small piano against one wall with family photos crowded over it.
The air smelled of lemon.
“Is that your needlepoint, ma’am?” A craftsman to the bone, Peabody admired the pillows. “It’s beautiful work.”
“My daughter-in-law got me into it, and now I can’t stop. What is this about?”
“Mrs. Coffman, did you overnight a package to a Kent Abner, for delivery this morning?”
“Why would I? I don’t know any Kent Abner.”
“Your credit account was charged for the shipment.”
“I don’t see how when I didn’t send it.”
“Maybe you’d like to check on that, while we’re here.”
“Fine, fine. Roscoe, we’re going to be late again. Been waiting for that man for decades. He never can get anywhere on time. It’s our daughter’s twenty-fourth wedding anniversary,” she said as she walked to a—very tidy—little desk and sat down at the mini-comp on it. “Married a Catholic. I never figured it to last, but Frank’s a good man, good father, and he’s given her a happy life. So we’re— Well, son of a bitch!”
And there you have it, Eve thought as Brendina turned.
“I’ve been charged for that shipment. That’s a mistake—it says my account was charged at ten last night. I was sitting in bed watching Junkpile on-screen at ten—or trying, as Roscoe snores like a freight train. I keep good records, so I know what I spend and how I spend it. I was a bookkeeper for more years than either of you have been alive!”
“We don’t doubt any of that, Mrs. Coffman.”
But Brendina’s ire hadn’t yet peaked.
“Well, GP&P is going to hear from me, you better believe.” She fisted her hands on her hips, her eyes shooting daggers at Eve as if she’d been responsible. “And they’d better make this good. I’d like to know how somebody got my information, if that’s what happened, or if some careless finger at GP&P hit the wrong key.”
“We believe it’s the former, ma’am.”
“I’ll be changing my codes asap, you can be sure of that! And I’m going to have my boy look into this. He’s a police officer.”
“Yes, ma’am. You can have your son contact me, Lieutenant Dallas at Cop Central. In the meantime, can you tell me who would have access to your account?”
Brendina stabbed a finger in the air, then tapped it between her breasts. “Me, that’s who. And Roscoe, but he has his own, and only has my codes in case something was to happen. Same as I have his. Rosco
e!”
“Stop yelling, stop yelling. Heavens to Murgatroyd, Brendi, I’m coming, aren’t I?”
When he came out, dapper was the word that sprang to Eve’s mind. He wore a pale blue suit chalked with white stripes, a white shirt, and a bright red bow tie with a matching pocket square. His hair, candlestick silver, was slicked back and shined like moonlight on water. His silver moustache was perfectly trimmed and groomed.
His eyes matched his suit.
“You didn’t say we had company.” He beamed at them.
“Not company, cops.”
“Friends of Joshua’s?”
“No, sir,” Eve said. “We’re here about a package that was delivered this morning. The shipment was charged to your wife’s account.”
“What did you send, Brendi?”
“Nothing! Somebody got into my account.”
He looked at her with affection, and mild surprise. “How’d they do that?”
“I don’t know, do I?”
“Ms. Coffman, do you have your ’link?”
“Of course I have my ’link. I was just changing purses when you buzzed.”
She marched into what Eve assumed was the bedroom, marched back out with a gargantuan shoulder bag in vivid purple and an oversize evening purse in glittery red—to match Roscoe’s tie, Eve assumed.
“I was just taking out what I need for tonight,” she said, and dug in.
Her annoyed expression changed to alarm. Now she marched to the coffee table, dumped the contents of the shoulder bag.
Eve decided if the woman ever faced an apocalypse with that bag in tow, she’d survive just fine.
“It’s gone! Oh my God, my ’link’s not here.”
“Where is it, Brendi?”
“For God’s sake, Roscoe!”
“Don’t worry now. I’ll help you look for it.”
Brendina’s expression softened. “No, honey, it’s gone. Somebody must’ve taken it out of my bag.”
“When’s the last time you used it?” Eve asked.
“Just yesterday—we were all out shopping. My girls and I—my daughters-in-law, my daughter. Marion wanted new shoes for tonight, and she needed to pick up the wrist unit she got for Frank—she had it engraved. And— God, we were all over. Had a late lunch. I used it to call my sister, to tell her we were changing our lunch reservation to two-thirty because everything was taking so long. She was meeting us, and she gets cranky if she has to wait.”
“Where did you use it?”
“Ah…” She pressed a hand to her forehead. “On Chambers and Broadway—I’m nearly certain. We’d only just left the jewelry store, and it’s right there.”
“As far as you remember you didn’t use your ’link since that point?”
“No. I know I didn’t. We went shopping some more, met my sister for lunch. We had a long lunch, and Marion insisted Rachel—my sister—and I take a car home. She called for one and paid for it—insisted. I came home, took a nap. Long day. Roscoe and I had dinner, watched some screen. I didn’t go out today. I needed to clean the house, then get ready for tonight.
“I only keep one account on my ’link: my shopping and household account. But—”
“It’s all right, Brendi.” Roscoe put an arm around her. “I’ll help you. And it’s time you had a new ’link.”
Sighing, she leaned into him. “Let me use yours, Roscoe, so I can deal with all this. We really are going to be late.”
“Peabody, why don’t you leave the Coffmans our cards? You can have your son contact us.”
“Yes, fine, thank you. I really need to deal with this. You can talk to Joshua. He’s a police officer.”
2
Back in the car, Peabody strapped in. “Maybe the killer’s looking for an easy mark. An older woman, distracted with a lot of other women. Maybe follow them awhile. Crowded shopping area, bump and snatch.”
“Most likely,” Eve agreed. “And with her being older, he might think if she can’t put her hands on her ’link at some point, she’ll just think she misplaced it. Maybe she doesn’t change codes right off. He only needs a few hours. Use it, toss it, move on.”
She muscled her way back across town. “It’s not going to connect to the family. Not that having a cop and a rabbi in there exempts them, but it’s sloppy and stupid.”
“Are you going to read Sergeant Coffman in?”
“Might as well. If there is any connection, he can dig into that angle. We’ll talk to the delivery girl—who’s not going to be connected, either, unless somebody has a grudge there, saw this as getting her in trouble.”
“That would be stupid, too.”
“Exactly, but we’ll talk to her. She works that route. Maybe she knows someone in the neighborhood who wasn’t a fan of Kent Abner’s.”
Lydia Merchant lived five floors up in a post-Urban building over a bodega that smelled like mystery tacos. Nobody had their windows open to the spring evening, and most had riot bars.
Despite the five floors, one glance at the pair of green-doored elevators—one with a sign stating OUT OF ORDER, with a handwritten AGAIN! in angry block letters—had Eve shoving open the stairwell door.
Peabody hissed out, “Loose pants,” and climbed with her through various scents—somebody’s Chinese takeout, someone’s very rank body odor, someone’s heavy dose of cheap cologne (possibly Mr. BO), and, oddly, what might have been fresh roses.
On the fifth floor, Eve scanned the apartment door. Strong security here, in the way of locks: three police locks rather than electronics.
Cheaper, she thought, but pretty effective.
She buzzed.
Moments later, through the static on the intercom, somebody demanded, “Who is it?”
“NYPSD.”
“Yeah, right.”
“NYPSD,” Eve repeated, and held her badge up to the Judas hole.
“I’m calling in to check that before I open the door.”
“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve; Peabody, Detective Delia, Cop Central.”
“Yeah, right again.”
Eve waited, waited. Actually heard a squeal from inside, then rising female voices before locks began to clunk. She heard the distinct metal slide of a riot bar before the door popped open.
The two women who stood gaping hit about the same age. One was tall, busty, blond, the other just hitting average height with a small build. A mixed-race brunette.
Both had big blue eyes.
“Holy shit,” they said in unison. “You look just like Marlo Durn did in the vid,” the blonde continued. “Or Marlo, I guess she looked like you. We saw it twice.”
“Great.” She should get used to it, Eve thought.
She’d never get used to it.
“Did somebody break in and kill somebody?” Lydia, the brunette, demanded. “Somebody’s always breaking into this dump, or trying to.”
“No. It’s about a package you delivered this morning, Ms. Merchant.”
“Really?” Big blue eyes got bigger. “Which one?”
“Can we come in?” Peabody added a quick smile.
“Oh, sure. You’re prettier than the actress in the vid,” the blonde told her. “I know she was killed and all that, but it’s just true.”
The roses from the stairway scent stood on the skinny bar that separated the crowded living area from a tiny kitchen. A bottle of wine stood open beside it.
“Have a seat, I guess. We were just going to have some wine. Can you have wine? We’re celebrating.”
“No, but thanks.”
“We both got raises.” The blonde, definitely bubbly, perched on the arm of the chair. “I got mine last week, and Lydia’s finally came through today. We’re moving out of this hellhole!”
“Congratulations. Ms. Merchant—”
“Just Lydia’s okay. It’s really so weird you’re both here, in our hellhole. I deliver a lot of packages. I work for GP&P, but I guess you know.”
“You delivered one to Kent Abner this morning.”
&
nbsp; “Dr. Abner, sure. I deliver to him and to Dr. Rufty. They’re really nice—always give me a tip for Christmas. Not everybody does. Was something wrong with the package? I handed it right to Dr. Abner at the door.”
“Was there anything unusual in how the package came to you?”
“No. It’s mostly droids and automation at my distribution center. They load my van, upload the schedule—overnights with A.M. deliveries or special deliveries first and so on. It was—had to be because it was this morning—an overnight A.M. I don’t get what this is about.”
“We believe the package contained an as-yet-unidentified toxic substance.”
Lydia’s blue eyes went momentarily blank, then filled with alarm. “You mean like poison or something? Like terrorism or something?”
“We have no reason to believe, at this time, we’re dealing with any kind of terrorist attack.” Not altogether true, Eve thought.
“How do you know there was toxic stuff? Did Dr. Abner get sick?”
“Dr. Abner’s dead. He died shortly after receiving and opening the package.”
“Dead? He’s dead!” Those blue eyes filled. “But … Oh my God. Oh my God, Teela!”
Teela immediately slid off the arm, into the chair with Lydia, wrapped her arms around her. “Lydia touched it. Is she—”
“We believe the substance was released upon opening.”
“I’m fine, I’m fine. Dr. Abner. He’s such a nice man. He and Dr. Rufty are so sweet together. You can tell when people are sweet together. I really liked them. I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know anything was wrong with the delivery. I never would have—”
“No one’s accusing you,” Peabody soothed. “Do you know of anyone, in their neighborhood, at your work, anywhere, who might have disliked Dr. Abner?”
“No. I know some of their neighbors because it’s my route. But nobody ever said anything mean, or much at all. Sometimes if a neighbor isn’t home and doesn’t have a delivery box, one of the others will take it for them—you have to have a waiver on file for that. Some of them do. The doctors will sometimes take deliveries for the people on either side of them, and they do that for the doctors, too. It’s a really nice, friendly street. But today, the only package on that block was for Dr. Abner.