Forgotten in Death

by J. D. Robb

  And of cherry pie à la mode.

  9

  By the time Eve drove through the gates of home, her mind had circled from murder to pie and back to murder.

  The house rose up, stone towers and turrets etched against a sky bright and blue with summer. Well, not quite summer, she thought, but nearly. Close enough.

  Warm and bright enough.

  Somebody—Summerset or some landscape guy—had set big stone urns to flank the front door. Flowers in bold reds and purples, flashes of bright yellow with trailing greens speared and spilled out of them.

  They made her think of the pots of flowers on the Delgato stoop, so her mind tracked right back to murder.

  “Morris should get me at least a prelim tonight on the body. Harvo will work that fiber in tomorrow. But I have to push on DeWinter if she doesn’t come through by morning.”

  She pulled up, tapped her fingers briefly on the wheel. “And I have to write all this up, send Peabody a copy. She’ll whine I didn’t pull her in when we found Delgato.”

  He got out as she did, but she noted he still studied his PPC. “You’ve got something?”

  “Maybe. Not quite there as yet, but maybe.”

  “We could just have pizza and—”

  “No.” He slid the PPC back into his pocket and took her hand. “A long, hard day deserves a meal.”

  “Pizza is a meal.”

  “Not tonight it isn’t.”

  They walked in—more flowers, something as wildly blue as Roarke’s eyes, speared out of a copper vase and sweetened the air.

  And Summerset, the living cadaver in a perfect black suit, stood in the foyer with the pudge of a cat at his feet.

  “You’re quite late, but I detect no blood or bruising. What have you done to your boots, Lieutenant?”

  Baffled, she looked down. Then remembered. Dumpster, remains in a rubble-filled cellar. “My job.”

  “Off with them,” he ordered as Galahad strolled over to sniff at them.

  “What?”

  “No point in tracking whatever you’ve done all over the house. Take them off, and I’ll see what I can do to salvage them.”

  She started to ignore him, but rethought because they were really comfortable boots, and simple ones. Just simple black boots—that had probably cost as much as six months’ rent on a one-room apartment in Queens.

  “I had to examine a body in a dumpster.” She yanked one off.

  “That would explain it.”

  “And remains in a busted-up cellar.”

  “Just your average day then.” Summerset took the boots—delicately, with the tips of his fingers.

  “I don’t suppose we have pie.”

  Summerset smiled at Roarke. “As it happens, we do. I baked a cherry pie this afternoon.”

  Three steps up the stairs with the cat streaking ahead of her, Eve stopped. “You tagged him.”

  “I didn’t, no.”

  “How’d he know to bake cherry pie?”

  “The open market had some lovely cooking cherries today. I’ve had a slice, after my meal, and can attest the pie came out very well.”

  “Looking forward to it, thanks,” Roarke told him as he started upstairs.

  “After your meal. We have some excellent grilled pork chops.”

  “Sounds like just the thing.”

  Eve muttered her way up and toward her office. “I didn’t trash the boots. They’re just bunged up a little.”

  “He’ll unbung them as much as possible.” He gave her butt a quick pat. “I’m going to open that wine. I know very well you’ll want to set up your board—or boards, in this case—and update your book and so on. But I’m having a glass of wine. You have twenty minutes to do as you must, and I’ll take the wine with me and give this search another nudge or two.

  “Twenty minutes,” he repeated as he selected the bottle from the hidden cabinet in her office. “Then we’re having chops.”

  She’d figured on thirty, and could probably squeeze him for the extra time—especially if he got caught up in the search.

  Still, she got right down to it, opening the operations on her command center while the cat made himself comfortable on her sleep chair.

  She wrote out the report, starting with the first interview with Angelina Delgato, attached the recording of the crime scene. She shot it to Peabody, who could whine all she wanted, because Eve didn’t have time to bother listening. And because she wanted a consult, sent it and everything else she had to Mira, with a request for that consult.

  Since that ate up the twenty, she was still setting up her board when Roarke came back.

  “I’m almost done. Anything on your end?”

  “We’ll discuss.”

  He opened her terrace doors to the air before walking by her and into the kitchen.

  “I didn’t get anything from Morris yet,” she called out as she worked. “I need to give him a nudge.”

  “Do you think he’s lagging about?”

  “No, but—”

  “Leave it be, Eve. You’ve had three murders drop in your lap in one day. Take a breath, eat a meal, and let it process in that busy brain of yours for a bit.”

  “It’s been processing.”

  “No.” He came out with two domed plates. “It’s been collecting, arranging, intersecting. Now let it sit there awhile.”

  He set the plates on the table in front of the open doors, then went back for the wine and another glass for her.

  “Do you ever get tired of doing all that?” She gestured to the table. “And nagging me to eat something?”

  “Yes. But we all have our crosses to bear, don’t we?”

  “I closed a lot of cases before I had fancy boots getting unbunged and fancy dining at regular intervals.”

  He poured her wine, poured a second glass for himself. Spoke very pleasantly. “Are you trying to annoy me so I’ll say bugger it and leave you alone?”

  She stuck her hands in her pockets, stepped back to evaluate a section of her board. “Maybe.”

  “Do you think it’ll work?”

  “I could make it work.” But she turned around, walked to the table. “But then I’d spend time pissing you off instead of just eating the damn pork chops, then getting back to work.”

  “Aren’t you the clever one?”

  She sat, giving him the steely eye as she picked up her wine. Because, damn it, she wanted some wine, and maybe a breather with it.

  “You can be pretty annoying, too.”

  “Yet somehow we tolerate each other.”

  He lifted the domes.

  “Crap.”

  And lifted his eyebrows at her snarl. “A problem with the meal I selected?”

  “Yeah. It looks really good, and now I’m hungry. I could’ve done with a couple slices of pie—pizza and cherry. Now I want this chop and those whatever potatoes.”

  “Scalloped.”

  “Yeah, those. What is that green stuff? Broccoli?”

  “Roasted sesame and ginger broccoli, according to the AC menu. That should disguise the green well enough for you.”

  “Maybe.” But she went for the chop first. “I’m going to say I know you gave this a lot of your day. You did that, initially, because those remains—one an infant—turned up on your property. You may not take blame and responsibility like Harmony says her father does, but it weighs on you.”

  “It does. And on you.”

  “It’s supposed to weigh on me. You kept giving more of your day because, well, you get a kick out of solving a puzzle in EDD, but then you gave more because I asked you. So I’ll eat the stupid green stuff and won’t bitch about it. This time.”

  “I accept the terms of your deal.”

  She took a small bite of the green stuff, which was surprisingly tasty. But she decided there was no need to sweeten the deal by mentioning it.

  “If you want to wait until we eat before telling me whatever progress you made on Alva Quirk, I’m okay with it.”

  He
took a roll, braided and golden and glossy, broke it in two. He passed her half.

  “One of the multitudes of reasons I love you is because I know you mean that, even though it’s brutally hard for you. One of the reasons I admire you is I know you’ll work to the bone for Alva Quirk, and when you get her justice, you’ll work to the bone for whoever lay in that cellar all these years. And you’ll do the same for Carmine Delgato, even though he may have played a part in Alva’s death.”

  He shook his head when she opened her mouth. “Don’t say it’s your job. Not to me. It’s your calling, your passion, your bloody destiny. And I’ve found another part of mine is doing what I can do to help you. It matters to me that I can.”

  “It matters to me that you will.”

  “Then over this fine dining and good bottle of red, I’ll tell you what I know of the sad story of Alva Quirk.”

  He knew how to tell a story, Eve thought. Even now, when he related essentially a report, he wove it his way.

  “I can tell you Alva Elliot, known as Quirk, was born forty-six years ago in Stillwater, Oklahoma. She was the first child of Mason Elliot and Deborah Reems. She had two younger siblings, a brother and a sister.”

  “Any of her family living?”

  “Both siblings. Mason, an electrician, and Deborah, an officer with the Stillwater police, separated when Alva was twelve. In reading the records, and between the lines thereof, it would appear Mason left Stillwater at that time. He joined the rodeo circuit.”

  “The rodeo circuit? Like…” She mimed twirling a lasso.

  “Yes, that. He had limited success in that area, but pursued it for three years until injuries forced him to retire. He died at the age of forty-eight from the effects of long-term drug and alcohol abuse.”

  Eve considered as she ate. “So, though I’ll look closer, from those between-the-lines, Mason had a substance abuse problem, which probably made family life difficult. Plus, he wanted to be a cowboy, so he took off, couldn’t hack it, and drank and drugged himself to death.”

  “It would appear so. Meanwhile, Deborah had three children to support and raise. Ages twelve, ten, and eight. There were grandparents on both sides, and the maternal grandparents also lived in Stillwater. Deborah’s father was a cop as well.”

  “Probably got some help there.”

  “As Deborah moved to a house on the same block as her parents after the separation, I would assume so. When Alva was nineteen, her mother was killed and her grandfather severely injured in what was called the Stillwater Riots.”

  On a swallow of wine, Eve pointed. “Wait, I know about that. Militia types and what they called sovereign citizen nuts stormed the city where one of their own was being held—charged with murder. A cop killing.”

  “Yes. They came heavily armed, drawing like-minded others or simply those who hungered for violence and chaos from across the state, across the region. What they claimed was a protest, a show of solidarity, sparked that violence and chaos.”

  “Bring a thousand or so armed nutcase civilians who think they’re fucking soldiers together?” Almost viciously, Eve stabbed a bite of chop. “What could go wrong?”

  “And everything did. By the time—it took three days—the violence was quelled, hundreds were dead, hundreds more wounded—those numbers included children, as businesses were burned out and looted, homes destroyed. Among the casualties, Deborah Reems, in the line of duty. Among the wounded, her father, who suffered a spinal injury that paralyzed him.”

  “Alva was nineteen?”

  “In college at Oklahoma State, studying to be a teacher. She came home, one assumes to mourn her mother, help her grandparents, tend to her younger brother and sister. Her grandfather only lived another two years, and her grandmother had a breakdown. Alva’s brother, then nineteen, studied criminal justice. Her sister went into nursing. Alva worked as a waitress.”

  Yes, he knew how to tell a story, and she saw the picture he painted clearly. “She gave up what she wanted to take care of her family.”

  “So it reads to me. At the age of twenty-four, with her brother now a rookie with the Stillwater cops, her sister getting her nursing degree, her grandmother living in a retirement community, Alva married Garrett Wicker, age thirty, and an officer with the Stillwater cops.”

  Roarke studied his wife. “For a brief time, only one term, she picked up her education in night school. She and Wicker relocated to a small town on the Oklahoma/Kansas border, where he took a position as a deputy sheriff. There’s no record of her continuing her education or any employment during the eight years they lived there. During that time, five years in, her grandmother suffered a fall and died from her injuries. There were some local write-ups, as the woman had lost her daughter, and essentially her husband, during the riots. Alva was listed as too ill to attend.”

  “Bullshit.” The fury of it, for it, pulsed in the back of her throat. “He’d isolated her. Wicker, the husband. Pulled her away from her family, her support network. Forced or badgered her into giving up any idea of a career in teaching. Knocked her around, that’s what he did, physically, emotionally, every way.”

  As if to soothe, Roarke reached over, just brushed his hand over the back of hers. “I’m going to agree with that. From what I picked up on Wicker, he had a number of strikes in Stillwater for excessive force. He’s now chief of police in the little backwater town of Moses, where he took Alva.”

  “She got away from him.” Hadn’t she thought something along those lines after seeing those old injuries? She got away, Eve thought. Ran.

  “New York seems a stretch. She had a brother, a sister.”

  “Not oddly, to my mind, the brother was brutally beaten only weeks after the grandmother died. Set upon, the reports read, by three men. That same night, after the sister left her brother’s bedside, she was also set upon, raped at knifepoint.”

  “Jesus Christ.” She had to push up from the table, pace away, step out to breathe the air on the little balcony.

  “That motherfucker. He set it up. I bet they took pictures. ‘Here’s what’ll happen and worse, Alva, you stupid bitch, if you don’t do what I say when I say it. If you try to tell anybody what goes on in my house. If you try running back home.’”

  She closed her eyes. “‘You’re nobody, you’re nothing. Nobody cares about you. I’m all you’ve got. I put a roof over your head. I put food on the table. Why do you make me punish you?’”

  She came back to the table, sat again. “Her father—substance abuse. Maybe abusive otherwise. Deserted them. She married a cop—she admired cops. They keep the law, the order, they keep the rules. A cop raised her—probably protected her from harm—a cop helped her, gave her love and affection, safety, security. This cop, this husband, hurts her. She must deserve it. She broke the rules he set down, so she deserves it. Her siblings—she gave up her own dreams for them. She has to protect them, like her mother and grandfather.”

  Again, Roarke brushed a hand over hers. “I believe Mira will agree with your assessment. Alva lived that way for nine years. Then Alva Wicker disappeared. There were missing persons reports issued. Her siblings were interviewed, and from their responses I tend to believe she never contacted them.”

  “Protected them. He broke her, and she couldn’t live that way anymore, but she had to protect what she loved.”

  “So Alva Quirk was born. The fake ID is well done, not perfect, but well done. A pro or someone with experience certainly. They laid a decent background from 2047 back.”

  “I didn’t find any background.”

  “Washed, at a later time. In that, she changed her hair—very short and brown, where she was born very blond. Brown eyes, when she’d been born with blue. Quirk, two years older than actuality, and born in Dayton, Ohio, only child and so on. She listed her address, beginning in 2048, as Morgantown, West Virginia, and her employment as a housekeeper in a nearby resort. Enough time, I should be able to track down where the ID was made, but more importantly to you, I
’d think, is she wiped it again in 2052. So Quirk ceased to exist.”

  “Something spooked her. She saw something, or someone, and got spooked. Wiped herself out again and went poof. But—”

  “What you have on her? The ID? It’s from a check-in at the Chelsea Shelter. Just bare bones, as is often the case. She gave them the name she’d taken, and nothing else. So she popped up again as Quirk, in New York. No background.”

  “I need to talk to her siblings.”

  “Both still in Oklahoma. I sent you the current contact information.”

  “Did Wicker ever divorce her?”

  “He did, and remarried, divorced again. Remarried again. No children.”

  “Good.” She grabbed her wine, took a quick drink. “Good. He doesn’t get notification. What he will get is an investigation. DeWinter has to confirm the time line of those injuries. If I can find Alva’s place, where she kept her books. Maybe she wrote stuff down, maybe the rules she broke, the punishment he gave her.”

  “It’s years ago, Eve. More than a dozen since she ran from him. And he’s a cop.”

  Slowly, Eve shook her head. “No, he’s an abuser with a badge, and that’s the worst kind. He doesn’t get to keep the badge. I may not be able to see that he’s charged and convicted and locked up for domestic abuse, though I’m going to give it a solid try. But he’s not going to keep the badge.”

  She looked straight into Roarke’s eyes. “We’re not going to let him. You’ve given me enough, you dug, you worked, and you gave me what I needed. I’m going to take that and do what needs doing. We—you and me—we’re not going to let him hold a badge.”

  She picked up her wine again, sipped slowly. “We know what it’s like—you and me—to live with someone who uses power and authority to hurt and terrorize us. I felt that from her. That’s not woo-woo crap.”

  “Isn’t it?” he asked her.

  “No, it’s instinct and training. It’s following your gut and following leads. She lived with that. Nine years. I lived with it for eight, you lived with it longer. She broke. I broke. You never did.”

  “I’m not looking at a woman who broke.”