Forgotten in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “Elsie, I’m sorry—” DeWinter hurried in, stopped when she saw Eve. “Dallas. We’re not going to get this done any faster because you’re hovering.”

  “I needed an update.” She gestured to the sketch. “And I’ve got one.”

  “You’ll get more if you let Elsie work.” She waved a hand in a commanding come-along, and clicked out.

  Eve just turned, gave Elsie and her careful poker face a nod. “Thanks,” she said, and went after DeWinter.

  “Again,” DeWinter began the moment Eve stepped in, “the victim was a female between the ages of twenty and twenty-five. Highest probability indicates earlier rather than middle twenties. She was in good health before sustaining three gunshot wounds, one in the sternum, one on the left side, which cracked the rib as discussed, and one in the left shoulder.”

  “The shoulder?”

  “The dislocated shoulder we project sustained that injury when she fell, yes.”

  As she spoke, she opened a closet and took a pink lab coat—that matched her shoes—from a forest of others. “She also sustained a head blow—again, from the fall in all probability. The ballistic report, as you know, identifies the recovered slugs as thirty-two caliber.”

  As DeWinter swung on the lab coat, she circled to the other side of the table. “The full panel DNA confirms my belief the victim was of Middle Eastern heritage.”

  “You didn’t mention that belief yesterday.”

  “Because it wasn’t yet confirmed. Now it is. Both parents were Middle Eastern. Lebanese is, again, the highest probability. She had a hairline fracture, well healed, on her right ankle. A childhood injury, at about the age of twelve. There’s no sign of abuse, addictions, serious illnesses. Everything indicates excellent health care, excellent dental care and hygiene.”

  When she paused, Eve pushed in. “What about the fetus?”

  “Healthy, approximately thirty-two weeks. The DNA is Middle Eastern—maternal—and paternally, European—that is, primarily Britain. Also Germany and some northern Europe.”

  “Don’t tell me Lithuania.”

  DeWinter looked baffled. “No, why?”

  “Stupid joke. Nothing.”

  “Scandinavia, likely Sweden. Anglo-Saxon, Caucasian.”

  “Interesting. So, thirty-seven years ago—”

  “Between thirty-five and forty, more likely on the lower end,” DeWinter interrupted.

  “Plans and building permits, such as they are, say that cellar went into construction thirty-seven years ago, in the fall. That’s when she went in.”

  “You assume.”

  “Jesus, DeWinter, it lines up. That’s 2024, and the damn restaurant opened for business in the spring of the next year. She couldn’t have fallen through a goddamn concrete floor. Did she fall or not?”

  “Yes, she sustained a fall of between eight to ten feet.”

  “Thirty-seven years ago, she’s early twenties and a few months away from having a baby. A baby she, this young, conservative woman of means, steps out of her race and culture—”

  “You don’t know culturally where—”

  “No mix. None. The baby would have been. Even the father had some different countries in his DNA—all WASP—but she doesn’t. You didn’t say most likely Lebanese with some Iranian and/or Sudanese, whatever. Her family, her ancestors stuck to their own. And the father of the fetus, his family stuck to the WASP.”

  “That’s a fair point,” DeWinter conceded, “but—”

  “Don’t but me,” Eve snapped back because—finally—she could see her victim. “Why did she come to New York—or America? Did her family immigrate, did she come to study, to work? She meets this guy, this white guy, and she steps out, and so does he.

  “Maybe it’s love—even just passion—or maybe he was a hit-and-run sort. But the ring…” She shook her head. “Odds lean love, however transient. Not everybody wore wedding rings, and not every woman who got knocked up worried about it. She might have, but if he was a bang-and-blow sort, would she want to be reminded? Anyway…”

  “That’s a lot of supposition.”

  “It’s making a picture, it’s building a theory. Different races—who cares? Except some did, some still do.”

  “Such as the Natural Order cult you just exposed.”

  “Can’t have a cult unless some people want to join in. Different religions, too, right? She’d most likely be Muslim—probabilities,” she said before DeWinter could object again. “Not fringe, not hard-line, she’s too conservative for that. But that would be strike two for some people—say, family who’s traditional, who sticks with their own kind.”

  “Enough to kill her over it?”

  “Enough to object, to make things difficult. And people kill people, including family, for all kinds of ugly reasons. Three shots. Someone wanted her gone, her and the kid inside her. Gone and forgotten.”

  They may have hard lines on their individual processes, but on this, DeWinter absolutely agreed.

  “She won’t be forgotten now.”

  “No, she won’t. I’ve got to get to Central. I have to take Alva Quirk’s ex apart, and take him down.”

  “The one who beat her? How are you going to— Never mind. I’m already late getting started and I’d really like to get out of here on time today. I have a date.”

  She smiled slowly, meaningfully. “With the sweet, charming, stunningly built Mackie.”

  Eve very nearly goggled. “The construction guy?”

  “That’s right, and you’re thinking he’s not my type.”

  “I don’t know your type, but okay. You’re standing there in hot-pink skyscraper heels and a matching lab coat over a white dress. He’s work boots, coverall, and calluses.”

  Face just a little smug, DeWinter examined the hot-pink tips of her fingers. “Did I mention he’s sweet, charming, and built? It’s just drinks, but I like his smile. And his delts.”

  DeWinter set one pink-tipped hand on her hip. “You never fully believed I didn’t have designs on Morris.”

  “Designs on is a bitchy phrase, and I didn’t think that. Not like that.”

  “That’s appreciated. The fact is, Morris came into my life when I was in flux—new city, new job, new people, and all that new for my daughter. Hell, for our dog. And I came into his when Li was at his lowest. Not quite lowest, because you’d been there for him when he lost Amaryllis. We gave each other someone to talk to, who shares interests. We still do. He’s my closest friend.

  “Now, Mackie,” she said with another smile, and patted a hand on her heart.

  “Well, good luck with that.”

  “Good luck with the wifebeater.”

  “I’ll take it,” Eve said as she walked out. “But I don’t need luck on this one. He’s finished.”

  She checked the time as she wound her way out of the lab, calculated she’d be a few minutes late for the nine o’clock. And she was fine with that.

  She tagged Peabody. “I’m just leaving the lab. We have a face, not complete, and not the holo replica, but enough to start facial rec. I want you to go back to April and through the end of 2024, adding she’s Middle Eastern and the wedding ring. We’ll see if anything pops on that. We’ll start the full run after we’re done with Wicker.”

  “Reo just got here.”

  “Make sure she’s in Observation before he gets there. Which is any minute. You just tell him how I got held up and I’m on my way. You know the rest.”

  “I’ve got it, and looking forward to it.”

  “We’re not supposed to count our ducks, but—”

  “It’s chickens,” Peabody corrected automatically. “You don’t count your chickens, but you have your ducks in a row.”

  “Whatever. Stupid. And I’m counting all the damn bird rows on this. Get Reo set up.”

  Why would anybody count chickens anyway? she wondered as she got in her car. And no way ducks would just stand in a row.

  What she had was everything and everyone lined up. And
she’d damn well make sure it worked.

  She didn’t rush. Let him wait. When she parked at Central she took her time, suffered the endless stop and go of the elevator, and didn’t push off until the floor below Homicide.

  From there she jogged up the glide like a woman late for an appointment, then hurried into the bullpen.

  Peabody had him sitting in a chair beside her desk. It didn’t surprise Eve in the least to see he’d worn his uniform—all spit and polish.

  He rose when he saw her, offered a polite, restrained smile and a hand to shake as he crossed to her.

  “Lieutenant Dallas.”

  “Chief, sorry I’m running late. Detective, didn’t you offer Chief Wicker some coffee?”

  “I—”

  “Never mind. I’ll get you some in my office. If you’d come with me.”

  “Sir?” Peabody, the meek and mild, chewed on her bottom lip. “I’m sorry, sir, but your office is still closed off.”

  “What? They said they’d be finished by last night.”

  “Yes, sir, but they ran into a problem. They said by noon.”

  “Damn it. Fine. I’m sorry, Chief, Maintenance isn’t always reliable.”

  “I hear that.”

  “We’ll take Interview A. Private, quiet. Detective, I need the evidence box on Quirk and the paperwork secured in my office. Bring it to A.”

  “Sir, the Elliots aren’t due to come in for the victim’s effects until this afternoon.”

  “I’m very aware.” Eve matched the cold tone with a cold stare. “The evidence box I clearly marked for Chief Wicker. Please come with me.” Tone changed, brisk, but welcoming. “How was your flight?”

  “Smooth enough. It’s been a long time since I shuttled out East.”

  “You’ve been to New York before?”

  “No, first time. Wish I could spare a couple days to see some sights. Atlanta, Georgia, a few years ago, and West Virginia, lord, years before that. Work conferences.”

  “I hope you have an opportunity to come back to New York. Be sure to let me know if you do.”

  She opened the door, gestured him inside. And turned on her lapel recorder.

  “So this is where the magic happens?”

  “I like to think so. It happened yesterday when we sweated a full confession out of the man who killed your ex-wife. Again, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “I very much appreciate that. And I appreciate you letting me have this piece of her to take with me. In my mind, she’s still the girl I married. Young and charming with her silliness, and with a sweet heart.”

  “And she just walked out on you one day.”

  “Her father walked out on her, so I guess it’s in the blood. I don’t think she ever got over it. Abandonment issues. And she never got over her mother’s death. Her mother was a cop. Took one too many risks. A woman with no husband and three kids at home, but she kept taking those risks.”

  In his world, Eve concluded, women belonged where he’d boxed Alva—in the house, where the man ruled.

  “You and Alva didn’t have any children?”

  “No, we weren’t blessed. Just as well. She tended to be forgetful, just lose herself in her daydreams.”

  Eve nodded as if she understood, then looked over as Peabody came in with an evidence box.

  “That’ll be all.”

  “Lieutenant.” Peabody looked close to tears as she clutched the box. “I’m sorry, sir, but the new directives and protocols are very clear.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Chief Wicker is a LEO.”

  “I know, sir, but it’s mandatory. And—and—and, I had to sign for the evidence box.”

  Eve let out a long sigh. “Another stickler,” she said to Wicker in a tone dipped in annoyance. “Any transfer of effects from a homicide—this comes from upstairs—has to be on the record. And the recipient of same must be Mirandized and asked a series of routine questions.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I hear that,” she said, echoing him. “And it’s a time suck. But it’s from upstairs. I apologize for this, and I’ll make it quick.” She sent Peabody a scalding look. “Record on. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, Peabody, Detective Delia, following protocol in the transfer of certain personal effects of Quirk, Alva—aka Wicker—to Wicker, Garrett, chief of police of…”

  He smirked. “Moses, Oklahoma.”

  “Right, sorry, Moses, Oklahoma. In order to turn over these items, Chief Wicker, as they were evidence in a homicide investigation, now closed, I need to read you your rights.”

  He waved a hand and sat patiently while Eve recited the Revised Miranda. “I have to ask if you understand your rights and obligations in this matter.”

  “Sure do. Read them off plenty of times myself.”

  “I bet. Let me just ask the required questions. What was your relationship with the deceased?”

  “We were married. I divorced her about twelve years ago for abandonment.”

  “Have you had any contact with the deceased since that time?”

  “None at all. Fact is, I didn’t know where she was until you contacted me yesterday.”

  “Do you know or do you have any knowledge of an Alexei Tovinski?”

  “Never heard of him. Russian-sounding name, isn’t it? Is he the one who killed Alva?”

  “He confessed to her murder from the chair you’re sitting in right now. Satisfied, Detective?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir, but the commander issued the directives.”

  “You’re dismissed. Peabody, Detective Delia, exiting Interview.”

  Eve rolled her eyes. “He issues directives like that because he rides a desk instead of riding suspects.”

  He laughed while she picked up the thick file on top of the box. Eve used her penknife to cut the seal on the box, then sat again.

  She smiled. “You said Alva was flighty and forgetful.”

  “That she was. Sweet, but in another world half the time or more. I don’t know where she picked up the name Quirk, but it suited her. She was a quirky one.”

  “Flighty, forgetful, quirky.” Eve nodded. “Is that why you, routinely, beat the crap out of her?”

  18

  The humor—at his dead ex-wife’s expense—didn’t just drain out of his eyes. They went feral.

  “You’ve got no business saying such a thing to me.”

  “Sure I do. It’s all written out—in details, with dates—in her books.” Eve patted the box. “And those injuries and dates match the conclusions from the chief medical examiner of New York, and our forensic anthropologist. And I have photos as well as medical reports.”

  She opened the file. “Like these pictures—also dated, as you see—of Alva’s facial injuries, her broken fingers, the burned fingers, the bruising on her ribs. You’ll note they’re time-stamped, two days after you filed a missing persons report on her. The medical—a Dr. Grace Habit—certified the injuries as approximately seventy-two hours old.”

  “I don’t have to listen to this.” He started to rise.

  “Stay in your chair or I’ll cuff you to it.”

  “You and who else?”

  “I don’t need anyone else. And I’d be delighted to add assaulting an officer to the charges.”

  “What charges? There’s no proof of anything in a half-crazy woman’s scribbling in some book. Some pictures? She could have gotten her ass whooped after she took off, and you can’t prove different. And you’re talking to a cop, you stupid bitch. There’s a statute of limitations on domestic abuse.”

  “There is, but there isn’t on rape, there isn’t on felony rape.”

  “We were married. A man can’t rape his wife.”

  “I bet you believe that, but the law disagrees. Strongly disagrees. You’d beat her next to unconscious, then rape her. You’d break her fingers, then rape her. On the night before the morning she ran away from you, you did this.” She shoved the pictures across the table.

  “Then raped her. And to the many
counts of rape documented in her books, I’m going to shoot for enforced imprisonment. You wouldn’t allow her to visit or be visited by her family—under threat of more beatings. You had her brother beaten, her sister raped, to prove to her you could hurt them if she didn’t toe your line. It’s all in here.”

  He shoved the photos away. “None of this is going to hold up in court. None of this. I’ve got better than twenty-five years on the force. I’m the fucking chief of police. I’ve got a wife who’ll swear I’ve never laid a hand on her.”

  “She might. But, hey, your second ex-wife’s going to be a different story. I’m betting a lot of it’ll hold up. A long, ugly, humiliating trial for you, but if you’ve got a smart lawyer, you’ll probably get some of it tossed. Not all though.”

  She sat back. “No, not all. Especially when we sent investigators to Oklahoma. Someone like you? They don’t just pound on a woman half their size. Give them a badge and a weapon, they like to use it. I’m betting you’ve tuned up more than a few suspects in your day, guilty or innocent, and done the same with someone who just pissed you off.”

  She gazed up at the ceiling. “Add it all up, I’m betting we could get you twenty years. Twenty to twenty-five. With good behavior—which I don’t think you can pull off—you could, maybe, get out in fifteen.”

  She smiled at him, fiercely. “Want to try it?”

  “What do you want? And don’t tell me this is about Alva. You didn’t even know her. You looking for a score? Looking for something under the table?”

  “A bribe? Are you offering me a payoff for tucking all this away?”

  “I asked what you want.”

  “I’ll tell you. Hold on a second.” She took out her ’link. “Hey, Nadine. Locked and loaded?”

  “You bet.”

  “Pull the trigger.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Thanks.” She put the ’link away. “I’ll tell you what I want. What I want right down to my bones. I want you to spend the rest of your life in prison for what you did to Alva, for the shit you’ve smeared on your badge. That’s what I want. Now, what I’ll take?”

  She folded her hands on the file. “You own up to what you’ve done, sign a statement thereof. You resign—immediately—and we’ll deal it down to five years inside. If you can keep yourself in check, you’ll probably get out in three, maybe three and a half. But you’ll never carry a badge again.”