by J. D. Robb
“I broke,” she repeated. “I mended. She’d started to mend, the way I see this. Got away, covered herself, protected her family, got a job. Then something or someone cracked the seal she’d put over the break.”
She set the glass down again. “Wicker gave her near to a decade of abuse, and he’s going to pay for it just like whoever bashed her skull in and tossed her in a dumpster’s going to pay.”
She felt her throat closing up, struggled against it. “I have a badge. And that’s what I do.”
Roarke rose, came around the table. He put his arms around her, just held her.
“I’m fine. I’m okay.”
“You’re more than both no matter how this upsets you and reminds you. And you’re right in everything you said. You have the right of it.” He drew back, cupped her face. “We won’t let him keep the badge. And we won’t let those who killed a harmless woman who’d already suffered get away with it.”
She cupped his face in turn, touched her lips to his. “This is one of the multitudes for me.”
With a light laugh, he kissed her back. “Good to know.”
Her comp signaled an incoming. “Let that be Morris. Sorry, I need to see.”
“Go. I’ll see to the dishes before I see what else might have come through on Alva.”
“I’ll get to them later. Don’t—”
She broke off as she called up the message and attached report.
Roarke saw her eyes narrow, saw the flat and yet fierce look of cop in them. And saw to the dishes.
When he came back, she stood at her board, added the report, the autopsy photos.
“A paralytic, into the throat. The pressure syringe mark would likely have been covered completely by the bruising if we hadn’t found him so fast. He wasn’t dead when we did, still had a heartbeat, so more bruising would have formed if he’d hung there longer.”
“If you hadn’t found the mark, Morris would have.”
“Maybe. Probably, yeah, but if I’m the killer, I’m thinking who’s going to bother to look real hard? Some mope whose wife booted him, who can’t pay the rent on a flop, who’s gambling his way into hell? Reads suicide. Especially since if we hadn’t found him when we did, gotten him to Morris fast, the paralytic wouldn’t have shown on any tox screen. Morris said it would have dissipated in another two hours, tops.”
She stepped back. “Now it’s murder, and I believe I have motive and means. I’ll nail down the opportunity when I find out where Tovinski was. One way or the other, he’s going to spend some time in my box.”
“Do you want me to look at him more deeply?”
“No, I’ve got that. If you’d stick with Alva—anything else you can find. Then I want to start on financials. The elder Singers, Yuri Bardov, Tovinski—you can take that area on him. Anything hinky, anything I can use as a lever.”
“A reward mixed in with the work. And pie to follow. I insist.”
“Sure, pie to follow.”
She programmed coffee, then sat to write it all up, sent the update to Peabody and to Mira.
Then she called Oklahoma. She started with the cop brother.
The cheerful blonde in her late teens answered with a wide grin. “Hello, New York City! What’s happening?”
“I’d like to speak with Trent Elliot.”
“Sure. He’s just taking it chill in his burrow with a beer before he watches the game. I’ve never been to New York City. Is it frosty extreme?”
“I think so, most of the time.”
“I gotta get there.” The girl spoke on the move, crossed what Eve thought was a kitchen—light still poured in the windows—then started down some stairs.
Eve clearly heard pregame commentary—Yankee Stadium, Yankees versus the Oklahoma Buffaloes.
“Hey, Pops! Someone wants to talk to you.”
“Is that Hank? Tell him to blow. I’m not biting.”
“No, it’s a woman, from actual New York.”
The ’link changed hands. Eve saw a very blond—with some white sprinkles—man with a square jaw, annoyed blue eyes. “Who is this?”
“Detective Elliot, this is Lieutenant Dallas, New York City Police and Security.”
“Did that asshole Hank put you up to this? You tell him the Buffaloes are going to kick some Yankee ass tonight.”
“Detective, I’m contacting you regarding your sister.”
“Chantal? What the—”
“No, Alva.”
“Alva?” He came straight up out of his chair. “Alva’s in New York? What the hell is she doing in New York? I want to talk to her.”
“Detective Elliot, I regret to inform you—”
“No.” He snapped it out. “Goddamn it. No.”
“Pops? What’s wrong?”
“It’s okay, baby. Go on up. I need to talk now.”
“I’m getting Mom.”
“Not yet, Alva. I’ll come up when I’m done. We’ll all talk. My youngest girl,” he said as he sat again. “We named her after my sister. My big sister. Oh, son of a bitch. What happened?”
She opted to talk cop to cop, and he listened as she took him through it.
“I want you to know, and I’m not bullshitting you, I have a strong avenue to pursue. I’ve made considerable progress already, and will continue. We were able to uncover her original ID, which led us to you and your younger sister.”
“She was living on the street.” His voice trembled, just a little, with both rage and grief.
“She was. She took care of herself, the cops on the beat liked her. She used a couple of shelters when she wanted, and they liked her. She gave people origami flowers and birds and animals. She kept a book so she could report to the cops if somebody littered, for instance.”
“Crime and punishment,” he murmured.
“Yeah, you could say.”
“No, it’s from our mother. When we were kids, she kept a chart—the crime, the punishment. Little shit, you know, kid shit. Hit your sister—crime—punishment—lose thirty minutes’ gaming time. Don’t eat your vegetables—no dessert. Like that.
“Alva, she was always the rule follower—used to piss me off sometimes. She was always the responsible one. She didn’t tattle on me or Chantal, unless it was major, but she started keeping a notebook. Kid stuff. I guess she went back to doing that.”
His eyes went glossy with tears, but he let out a long breath until he had them under control. “She ran from that son of a bitch she married. That’s what happened. We hardly ever saw her after they moved, hardly ever got to talk to her. She always said how everything was fine, was great. How happy she was. I didn’t half believe her, but she kept saying it, and how she loved her house, and living in the country, having all the room. And—and—how there was so much sad back home. Mom, Grandpap, Grandma, all gone.”
He had to take those deep breaths again. “Was he hurting her? Chantal worried about that, but whenever I asked her, asked Alva, she just laughed it off. He was the sweetest husband in the world.
“Fuck that, he had a rep here in Stillwater. Sweet didn’t apply.”
“I’m verifying old injuries with a forensic anthropologist. She had several.”
“I knew it, part of me knew it. Goddamn it! Why didn’t she come home? We’d’ve taken care of her like she took care of us.”
“Shortly after your grandmother died you were attacked and badly beaten.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Laid me up good for…” He came out of his chair again. “He set that up? Bastard had friends on both sides of the law around here back then. He set me up. And Chantal, Jesus God, she was raped while I was in the hospital. He did that to keep her quiet. Alva … She’d have died to protect us.”
“Detective. I need you to listen to me. To stay calm and listen.”
“He’s not going to sit on his fat ass and get away with what he did to my sisters.”
“No, he’s not. You have to leave it to me.”
Those blue eyes went molten. “My sisters,
Lieutenant New Fucking York.”
“He’s not going to get away with it, but if you go after him and do what I know you want to do, he will. You can beat the hell out of him, end up losing your badge, doing time for assault, and he’ll come out of it a victim.”
“Not if he’s dead.”
“I’m ignoring that. You’re a cop, a solid cop like your mother, like your grandfather. He’s scum, and he’s not going to keep the badge he doesn’t deserve. I’m asking you to give me time to get Alva justice. For what happened then, for what happened now.”
“And if you don’t?”
“I helped lift her out of that dumpster this morning. I stood over her when she was on the slab in the morgue. I’ve spent the day finding everything I could about her and for her. Finding you, so someone who loved her would know, would come, would take her home again. There is no don’t for me. I’m standing for Alva, and I’ll make certain she gets justice.”
His eyes teared up again. “She wanted to be a teacher.”
“I know. She gave it up when your mother was killed and your grandfather was injured. She gave it up for you and your sister. Don’t let your very justifiable rage and grief stop me from taking down Garrett Wicker for what he did to her for nine years, what he did that set her on the path to that goddamn dumpster.”
He swiped at his eyes. “I have to talk to my sister, to Chantal.”
“Do you want me to notify her?”
“No, no, that’s for me. I’m sorry I took a punch at you.”
“Forget it.”
“I’m sorry for it,” he repeated. “I know you’re right. I know what my mother would say, my grandpap. Hell, what Alva the rule follower would say. I know you’re right. I’m going to give you all the time I can stomach. Let’s say a week. If by then you’re not any closer to taking down Wicker for what he did, I’m not making any promises.”
“It won’t take a week.”
“Can I use this number to contact you when we’ve made arrangements to come out there? To come for Alva.”
“Yes, anytime.”
He rubbed his face. “Later there, right. Like an hour?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant, for looking out for her. I expect I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Detective.”
“I think you really are. Good night.”
10
After the conversation, Eve rose and walked to the board to study Alva.
“Somebody knew you, loved you. They’ll take you home.”
No one had known her, Eve thought, or loved her when she’d wandered the streets, a child bloodied, broken, traumatized.
But someone had helped her.
“I’m not finished helping you.”
The hell with the time, she decided, and went back to her command center and contacted DeWinter.
“Are you ever off duty?” DeWinter demanded.
“I need a time line on Alva Quirk’s previous injuries. I’ll take your best guess.”
DeWinter lifted a glass of straw-colored wine, sipped delicately. “I don’t guess.”
“Listen, we’ve ID’d her. I have a name. I have a history that includes what reads clearly as a nine-year abusive marriage to a cop. Her mother was a cop, and went down in the line. Her grandfather was a cop, and he went down in the line. Before she hit twenty, she gave up her own ambitions so she could take care of her younger siblings. She trusted cops, she did everything right, and he broke her bones, blackened her eyes, isolated her from everything she loved and valued.”
Annoyance fought a war with distress over DeWinter’s face. “Dallas—”
“He’s still a cop, head cop in some podunk town in Oklahoma.”
“Do you believe he came to New York and killed her?”
“No. I believe he broke her, mind, body, spirit, and she’d be alive today if he hadn’t. I want his badge. If her injuries occurred during the time frame of those nine years, I’ll make him pay.”
“I set aside other work to prioritize this case. You’ll have a full report in the morning.”
“I just got off the ’link with Alva’s brother.” Keep saying her name, Eve thought. Make it personal. “I had to tell him we found her, and she’s dead. Their father was a drunk, a junkie, and took off when she was twelve. Their mother went down in the Stillwater Riots when she was nineteen. Alva wanted to be a teacher, but she gave it up. Gave it all up. And when her family was settled, she married a cop.
“He broke her.”
“Damn it. Give me a minute.”
The screen went to holding blue.
“You have a way,” Roarke told her, and so deep was her focus, Eve jolted.
“Jesus, make some noise.”
“I have more for you when you’re finished badgering Garnet. I’ll tell you over pie.”
DeWinter came back. “I haven’t organized this into a report as yet.”
“Just give me the time line. The report can wait.”
“I determined that the victim was forty-six years of age at TOD. The earlier, nonfatal injuries occurred over a period of eight to nine years. The victim would have sustained these injuries after the age of twenty-four and before the age of thirty-five, with the earliest, the fractured rib, occurring at approximately age twenty-five and the severe orbital injury and the later break on the finger of the right hand at approximately age thirty-three. I have more specific data on each injury, but any and all ages will be approximate and within a small margin of error.”
“She was twenty-four when she married the son of a bitch. She’d have been twenty-five when he relocated her across the state from her family. The orbital and other facial injuries? That would come in shortly before the ID wash and replacement.”
“Then you have what you need. And you’ll know he very likely abused her before they relocated. Slaps, intimidation, shoves, and so on that wouldn’t show.”
“Yeah, I know how it works, like I know it wouldn’t show up now how many times he raped her.”
“No.” DeWinter took another small sip of wine. “It wouldn’t. I hope you’ll succeed in making him pay. I hope our work here helps you do that.”
“Get me the report. I’ll do the rest. Thanks—when he pays, you get part of that, so you earned the wine.”
“I already earned the wine by convincing my daughter that despite not having school tomorrow, she still has a bedtime. And now I’ll drink it. Good night.”
“You have what you needed,” Roarke said as he came back in. He set a slice of pie beside her before taking a seat at her auxiliary with his own.
“Yeah, I do.” She took a bite. “God. Really good pie.”
“Are we going to Oklahoma?”
“No.” Unless she had absolutely, totally, and completely no choice.
“Town chief of police, that’s an appointed position. I’ll do a run on the mayor, the town council, whoever, see if I get a sense who’d back him, who won’t. I get that started, and I contact the fuck, tell him about Alva, get him to come to me.”
“Your turf, your box.”
“Damn right. I send a copy of DeWinter’s report, which will have pictures of the injuries and be all scientific and inarguable, to whoever’s in charge back there. And I’ll let them know big, bad New York cops are going to be talking to people out there, getting the county and state boys interested in talking to people. People like the second ex-wife, neighbors, voters.”
She took another bite. Angled her head as another thought occurred. “And I’ve got a way to spread the word on him, spread it far, spread it thick. After I get the report.”
He let out a short laugh. “I believe I know how you intend to spread that word. Nadine’s on book tour, you know.”
“She’s a reporter right down to the soles of her fancy shoes. Spreading the word’s what she does.” She ate more pie. “I may not be able to nail him for Alva—think I can, but if not? Abusers like that don’t chan
ge. There’ll be plenty of others with stories to tell once the door opens. He’ll lose the badge and have civil if not criminal charges up to his ass before I’m finished.”
“I may be able to help you with that.”
“You know any muckety-mucks in Oklahoma?”
“Most likely, but I found someone who may be able to speak for Alva. I found the source of the ID.”
“That’s quick work.”
“I was nearly there, and it fell into place after a thought and another conversation I had.”
“What thought? Who’d you talk to?”
“Shelters create official IDs—quite legally, through a process. But when you look at abuse shelters, those who seek shelter there aren’t always looking for that. They may often want to disappear, just as Alva did. And so it occurred to me there might be some willing to help with that.”
“With fake IDs? Who’d you talk to?”
“Someone I thought might have some knowledge of a network that helps provide this service.”
“You’re not going to tell me.”
“I’m not, no, but the conversation narrowed the search, particularly when one of the names I had founded a women’s shelter in Dayton, and did so five years before Alva’s Dayton ID. This name interested me in particular, as this woman did time.”
“For what? Shit, for forging IDs?”
Amused at her instant irritation—such a cop—Roarke enjoyed more pie.
“She doesn’t hide the fact, and founded the shelter after she served that time. Because, it seems, she learned many of the women inside with her were also victims of abuse. From lovers, johns, spouses, parents. It changed her, so she said, made her want to do something that could help, that could break the cycle. The Home Safe Women’s Shelter is highly regarded.”
“You can stop playing her legal rep.”
“Now I’m a lawyer? How many ways can you insult the man you love?”
“I’ve got more when I need them. Do I get that name?”
“Of course. And a contact number.” He handed her a mini-disc. “All the data and background’s on there. And this is very good pie.”
Eve plugged it in. “Allysa Gray, mixed race, age sixty-one. One marriage, one divorce, no offspring. You didn’t mention the assault charge.”