by J. D. Robb
He leaned toward Eve now, his eyes full of grief and pleas. “Understand, please understand, Kent and I lived a good life together, tried to do good work, to be good people. We raised our children to be good people, to do good work. To care. Please understand.”
“I do, Dr. Rufty. I do understand. Nothing your husband did caused this.”
Landa came back with a glass. “You drink this now, you take this soother. No argument. I’m a doctor, too, and, my darling, you drink the soother, or I get my medical bag.”
“He was so proud of you. He loved you like a daughter.”
“I know.” Landa pressed the soother on Rufty, kissed his cheek. “You drink this now, then you come upstairs with me and lie down awhile. I’ll stay with you.”
“But they have questions.”
“No, that’s all for now.” Eve rose. “Again, we’re sorry for your loss. Those are cop words, but they’re also true.”
It’s never just the dead, Eve thought as they got back in the car. Death—but most especially murder—ripped so many lives to shreds. And no matter how they were put back together, they were never, never the same.
For some killers, she thought, that miserable truth was a kind of bonus point.
* * *
They swung by Louise’s clinic, and found the waiting area packed. An enormously pregnant woman sat beside a woman with a squalling baby. The pregnant woman seemed delighted to coo over the type of being she’d soon have to deal with around the clock.
A trio of marginally older kids banged or squabbled over a collection of toys in a corner. Adults sat in chairs with watery eyes, hacking coughs, bandaged limbs, or simply the blind-eye expression of those waiting their turn in what reality deemed wouldn’t come quickly.
Eve walked to the check-in counter, started to take out her badge.
“Lieutenant, Detective, Dr. Dimatto’s expecting you. Go right through the side door. Sharleen will take you back to the doctor’s office. She’s with a patient,” the receptionist told Eve. “But she’ll be with you shortly.”
“Great. Thanks.”
Once through the door, a perky little redhead in a flowered tunic guided them past exam rooms, a lab station, and into Louise’s tidy office.
“She shouldn’t be too long,” Sharleen began.
“We can start with you,” Eve said, and made Sharleen blink.
“Oh. Okay. Um. Dr. Dimatto said we need to give you our cooperation.”
“Makes it easier all around. You knew Dr. Abner?”
“Sure. I’ve worked here about eight months now. Dr. Abner was one of our regular volunteer docs. He was just great with kids. I’m studying to be a pediatric nurse, so he let me assist him whenever he could.”
She paused, lost a few layers of perky. “I really liked him a lot. It’s hard to understand … It just isn’t sinking in, I guess.”
“Do you know of anyone he had problems with?”
“I just don’t. Like I said, he was really good with kids, and they liked him. Your kid likes the doc, you’re going to like the doc. And he never played big shot or sticky benefactor with the staff, if you know what I mean. He was just … just one of us.”
“Did you ever see him or interact with him outside of work?”
“No. Wait, that’s not true, I guess.” She held up a finger with the nail painted bright purple. “A couple months ago he had a late shift, and I was working. He walked me home after—insisted. I only live a couple blocks from here, but he didn’t want me walking home alone. It was late, and it was icy. He walked me home, so that was outside work.”
She sighed and the perky dissolved into distress. “He was nice that way.”
“All right. Sharleen, why don’t you see if anyone else is free to talk to us. You could send them back.”
“Sure. Okay.”
They got cooperation, anecdotes, regret from another two on staff before Louise came in.
“Sorry you had to wait.” With her traditional white coat flapping around a black shirt and pants, she headed straight to the mini-AC on a shelf behind her desk.
“It isn’t your blend, but it’s several steps up from the usual office-slash-waiting-room coffee. You want?”
“We’re good.”
“Sorry about your friend, Louise,” Peabody added.
“Thanks. Me, too.” She gulped down coffee, breathed out. “I want to say straight off I’m really glad it’s the two of you investigating. We’re pretty slammed today, but you can use the office for interviews, and I’ll have the staff come in on rotation.”
“We’ve already started,” Eve told her, and got a raised eyebrow.
“Is that so?”
“It is. We also have a warrant for anything relating to the victim that isn’t privacy protected.”
“Figured you would.” Louise walked to her desk, opened a drawer, took out a disc. “We came in last night after Charles and I talked to you. This is everything. It’s not much, Dallas. He was an invaluable asset to the clinic, but it was still only a handful of hours a week.”
Eve took the disc, passed it off to Peabody.
“And I should tell you, I spoke to the staff first thing—and contacted staff who are either off today or on the late shifts. I know you have to talk to them, be thorough—I want you to be thorough, but you’re not going to get anything.”
“Maybe while we’re here, I should examine a couple of your patients. Come up with a diagnosis or two.”
“Ha ha.” Visibly tired, Louise sat on the edge of her desk. “You’re probably not going to be any happier when I tell you I talked to a few people I know who know or have worked with Ponti.”
“Jesus Christ, Louise.”
“Before you unload on me, understand medicals are more likely to speak frankly to another medical.”
“And if Ponti turns out to be a killer, and gets wind you’re asking about him? Killers are more likely to go after nosy civilians than cops.”
Louise only shrugged. “Maybe, if I’d come up with anything other than the opinion he’s an arrogant asshole with considerable skill, particularly in emergency medicine. He’s not well liked, doesn’t appear to care. He didn’t appreciate Kent’s setdown, or the fact Kent had him written up. He hit back with the claim Kent was a rich, entitled elitist who wouldn’t last a full shift in the ER. Bitched about it for a few days with anyone who’d listen, then moved on to the next drama.”
“He likes drama?”
“Word is he has a scene, an altercation, a disagreement—some sort of drama—every week or two. Which I have to say isn’t that unusual in an inner-city ER.”
Eve waited a beat. “How about his wife?”
“Surgical nurse. Cilla Roe. She’s more liked, supposedly rock steady in the OR and out of it, apparently the contrasting smooth to Ponti’s rough edges.”
“Fine. Now stay out of it. I mean it, Louise.”
“She does mean it,” Peabody added. “And I’m going to say exactly the same.”
“Could you do nothing if one of your friends was murdered?”
“You’re not doing nothing,” Peabody said before Eve could speak. “You’re trusting us to stand for your friend, to get justice for him. You need to trust us.”
“I do. Absolutely. There’s a section on the disc listing the names of people I spoke with about Ponti, what they said, how to contact them if you need or want to follow up.”
“Great. Now back off. All the way off. That goes for Charles, too. And stay away from Ponti.”
Louise pushed off the desk. “Do you think he killed Kent?”
“I don’t know who killed Kent at this point in the investigation, but I know Ponti’s an arrogant asshole, and one with a temper. So steer clear.”
“All right, all right. I’ve got patients waiting. I’ll tell the staff to rotate back here. Oh, and the others, including volunteers, are on the disc, too, with contact information.”
“See if you can find a spot, Peabody,” Eve said when Louise w
alked out. “Start with the staff and volunteers on the disc, and I’ll take the rest here. Let’s get through this.”
“I know a spot. How about the medicals she talked to about Ponti?”
“They’ll wait.”
Eve glanced at the AC, decided she could wait for real coffee, then took the chair behind Louise’s desk to deal with the rest of the interviews.
Because Louise was right. They weren’t going to get anything new or revelatory here. But they had to tie it off.
7
When Eve finally walked into the bullpen at Central, she went straight to her office and coffee.
Peabody could handle the rest of the interviews via ’link, note if any required a face-to-face follow-up. Eve needed to set up her board, her book, write up her report.
As always, the routine helped—the physical act of arranging the board, reviewing as she did the faces, the images, the data.
Creating the murder book, writing a report put it all down in a clear, cohesive manner.
Facts, statements, evidence.
Suspects.
She ran thin there, admittedly. Topping the short list, Ponti and Thane.
With another cup of coffee, she put her boots on the desk, studied the board. Those faces, images, the timeline, the alibis.
Ponti, a medical, had to have a better than basic knowledge of chemistry, would likely have access to a lab. So that gave him a leg up on Thane.
Still, wasn’t it possible Thane had a connection to someone with knowledge and access?
Both had grudges against the victim—and grudges could simmer for a long, long time.
And both had tempers—and that was a strike against. Something cold in the killing. Not a hot-temper hit, but a cold one, and a remote one. No satisfying strike, no physical altercation, no looking into the victim’s eyes as life drained.
She swiveled to study the lab report again.
Not just rudimentary or even average knowledge. A real skill necessary, and patience, precision. Every step and stage covered. Nothing impulsive or of the moment.
She heard the footsteps approaching—not Peabody’s familiar clomp, but strong, authoritative strides.
She swung her boots off the desk and rose as Commander Whitney came to her open door.
“Sir.”
“Lieutenant.”
His stride suited the authority he carried on broad shoulders. An imposing man, he filled the room as he crossed over to study her board. He might ride a desk, but his eyes reflected the street cop he’d been. The gray threaded through his close-cropped hair added a kind of weighty dignity. The lines on his wide, dark face showed he carried that weight.
“I’m on my way to a meeting with Chief Tibble and the mayor now that I have your report.”
“I apologize for the delay, Commander. Detective Peabody and I have been in the field.”
Whitney waved that away with one finger as he stood at her board. “While procedure and policy demanded we report this death and its circumstance to Homeland, the lab results indicate this wasn’t an act of terrorism.”
“No, sir. Not only was this act very victim specific, the killer took steps to be certain the poison was contained to a very restricted area, and that it would dissipate quickly.”
“There are still concerns this single victim may have been a test case for a mass kill.”
“If that were the case, Commander, why go to the trouble of the additives that ensured the substance would dissipate, would kill only the specified target? The lab tech stated to control the substance to that limit of time and space took skill, effort, and resources.”
“Agreed. Which is why Homeland has passed on moving into the investigation. For now,” he added, as warning. “Their agent in charge will receive copies of all data, all reports.”
He turned back to face her. “You’re leaning toward the other doctor. Toward Ponti.”
“He checks some boxes. He has an alibi for the drop, but—”
“His wife is part of his alibi.”
“Yes, sir. And though she has a reputation for being less volatile than Ponti, she’s another medical, another who would have some knowledge of chemicals, have access to a lab. Who might harbor a grudge against Abner, for her husband.”
“You also have two ex-cons the victim helped put away.”
“Yes, sir. Ringwold’s alibi’s solid. He appears to have rehabilitated, made amends with his ex-wife and son, has built a stable business. He credits Abner with forcing him to begin to confront his addictions. He reads very believable. The second … He’s too damn stupid, sir. He’s a lazy drunk. Mean enough to kill, no question, but not smart enough for this.”
“And the ad exec? Some of your boxes checked there, too.”
“A mean streak, a grudge holder. And one I think wouldn’t confront a man like Abner. A strong, fit man like Abner. Not one-on-one. But find a way to pay him back, from a distance? Yes, sir. That would be his style.”
She looked back at the board. “The killer’s a coward. He’s smart, precise, methodical, but a coward. Poison’s a weapon of the weak,” she said, thinking out loud. “A weapon often used by women because they are, most usually, physically weaker than men. And in this case, the poison used was used remotely. So the killer doesn’t need to see the results, doesn’t have to see his target die. There’s no passion here.”
“An interesting term for it, Dallas. Passion.”
“It’s … like pushing a button to end a life. All the work, the thought, the effort went into creating the weapon. But there’s enough emotional distance here so the killer didn’t have to see the weapon work. There’s no explosion, no screams, no blood, no panic, no pleas. He—or she—shipped the package, walked away, and waited for the media reports.”
“An assassination.”
Because it never hurt to have your commanding officer follow your line of thinking, Eve nodded. “It has that lack of heat, yes, sir. But the victim wasn’t a man of political power, or great wealth and influence. He was a good doctor, by all accounts, a good husband, father, and friend.”
Now her eyebrows drew together. “If we go back to test case, Commander, and he was somehow a random target, a surrogate for some sort of actual assassination, why alert Homeland? There’s a brain behind this, and a brain would know releasing a nerve agent would do just that. Why not test it out on some sidewalk sleeper no one would miss, then dispose of the body? Abner generates media because he was a well-respected doctor.”
“You have a point, and I’ll bring that point up in my meeting. The mayor may be relieved with that point. Keep me updated, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir, I will.”
When he left, Eve sat again, put her boots up again, and frowned at the board.
Assassination. It fit the kill in her mind. A true assassin killed without passion, without heat, without regret. But where was the purpose? If she eliminated politics, power, money, religion, what remained?
Jealousy. Revenge.
Either or both, she thought. And either or both would be cold, calculated, and cruel.
Jealousy. Revenge. Both could fester for a very long time. Maybe something deep in Abner’s past had clawed its way into the now.
Calling up his data, she began a methodical search back, beginning with his parents.
What was that saying? The sins of the fathers something something. Well, some believed it.
Father, mother, stepmother, brother, half sister. All living, though none in the New York area. The half sister carried a little trouble along the way. Teenage shoplifting, truancy, underage drinking, possession of illegals. Married at eighteen—Jesus, who did that? Divorced at nineteen (surprise!). But no violent crimes, no major bumps. Just what looked like a long, rough patch that smoothed out in the mid-twenties.
Now a moderately successful writer of children’s books, married, two offspring, and settled in St. Louis.
She combed through his family, moved into his college years, med school ye
ars. And heard Peabody coming down the hall.
Her partner carried a fizzy and a tube of Pepsi.
“I thought you might want to switch it up from coffee about now.”
“Yeah, probably. Thanks.”
Peabody sat—gingerly—on the ass-biting visitor’s chair. “I got what you’d expect from the interviews with Louise’s staff and volunteers. People liked Abner. One of the med-van crew even admitted to having a little crush on him. Harmless,” Peabody added when Eve’s eyes narrowed. “He’s in a long-term relationship, was, in fact, throwing a birthday party for his partner at the time of the drop-off. It came off sort of like how I have this little crush on Roarke. You know.”
“Do I?”
Peabody shrugged, grinned, slurped some fizzy. “Abner tried to work in one run a month in the mobile, and none of that crew remembered any issues, any problems.”
“Somebody had one with him.” Eve cracked the tube. “Assassination.”
Now Peabody’s eyes narrowed. “You think it was a professional hit?”
“No. A pro would’ve killed him low-key. Gutted him on one of his runs, slit his throat on his way home one night. But assassination in that it’s target specific for a specific purpose, and contained to that target and purpose. Cold-bloodedly, precisely.”
“But what’s the purpose? We’ve got nothing on motive.”
“There’s always a motive, even when it’s ludicrous, petty, stupid, or just plain crazy. I’m looking at his history. Family, education, prior relationships, business dealings. Something’s in there.”
“Or.” Peabody shot up a finger. “Random specific.”
“What the hell is that?”
“If we follow the crazy, we have somebody, skilled, knowledgeable, who either by accident or on purpose develops this poisonous agent, and decides he wants to try it out. So now he works on a delivery system, then he has to pick a subject for the rest of the experiment. Maybe he knew Abner, maybe he just saw him on the street, decided he’d do. Maybe they struck up a conversation in a bar or Abner’s a friend of a friend’s cousin, but he decided on Abner.”