by J. D. Robb
“No.” Her eyes sharpened. “This wasn’t just some random killing, was it? Are you telling me someone deliberately murdered those two kids?”
“No, ma’am,” Eve interrupted. “We’re not telling you anything just now.”
After starting the ball rolling on the warrant, Eve wanted only one thing. To get back to Central, and from there do both her written and oral reports, write up her timeline, start her murder board.
But Peabody would not be denied.
“You put it off, you’ll be sorry, and you’ll have to shop by yourself for baby stuff.”
“I’m not shopping, with or without you. I’m just going to buy something. And it better not take over ten minutes.”
“Then we can get food, right?”
“It’s always something with you. There probably won’t be anywhere to park. I should just get something online. You can just tell me what I should get and I’ll get it. Isn’t that enough?”
“No.”
“Bitch.”
“You’ll thank me when Mavis gets all soft and gooey.”
“I don’t like soft and gooey unless it comes in chocolate.”
“Speaking of chocolate, what kind of cake are we having for the shower?”
“I don’t know.”
Sincerely shocked, Peabody jerked around in her seat. “You didn’t get cake?”
“I don’t know. Probably.” Because the idea of the shower, what she had to do, hadn’t done, should do, made her stomach jitter, Eve squirmed. “Look, I called the caterer, okay? I did it myself. I didn’t dump it on Roarke, I didn’t ask—God forbid—Summerset to handle it.”
“Well, what did you ask for? What’s the theme?”
The jitters escalated into a roiling. “What do you mean, theme?”
“You don’t have a theme? How can you have a baby shower without a theme?”
“Jesus Christ, I need a theme? I don’t even know what that means. I called the caterer. I did my job. I told her it was a baby shower. I told her how many people, more or less. I told her when and where. She started asking me all kinds of questions, which gives me a fucking headache, and I told her not to ask me all kinds of questions or she was fired. Just to do whatever needed doing. Why isn’t that enough?”
Peabody’s sigh was long and heartfelt. “Give me the caterer’s info, and I’ll check in with her. Does she do the decorations, too?”
“Oh, my God. I need decorations?”
“I’m going to help you, Dallas. I’m going to run interference with the caterer. I’m going to come over early on the day and help get it set up.”
Eve narrowed her eyes and tried to ignore the joy and relief bubbling in her breast. “And what’s this going to cost me?”
“Nothing. I like baby showers.”
“You’re a sick, sick woman.”
“Look, look! That car’s going to pull out. Get the space! Get the space! It’s first level, almost at the door. It’s a sign from the goddess of fertility or something.”
“Damn Free-Ager,” Eve mumbled, but beat out a Minibug for the parking slot.
She thought she’d hate shopping in a baby boutique. And Eve was a woman who knew herself well.
There were gargantuan stuffed animals and mind-numbing music. There were tiny little chairs, strange mesh cages, other animals, or poofy stars hanging from the walls and ceiling. Racks were full of odd miniature outfits. There were shoes no bigger than her thumb. Thumb-sized shoes, she thought, were unnatural. Nothing that small should be able to walk on two legs, so why did it require shoes?
Things rocked and swayed and played more tinkling music if you looked at them crooked.
And there were a number of gestating women, and others who carried the fruit of their wombs in colorful slings or strange padded seats that hooked over their shoulders. One of those fruits was wailing in a thin, alien cry.
And there were others, bigger ones, who sat in pushcarts or wandered around free to pummel the animals or climb on everything in sight.
“Courage,” Peabody soothed, and clamped a hand on Eve’s arm before Eve tried to bolt.
“Just point at something and I’ll buy it. Whatever it is. Cost is no object.”
“It doesn’t work like that. We go to one of the screens, see? She registered. So we find out what she wants, and what people already bought for her. They have great stuff here.”
“Why does something that can’t walk, talk, or feed itself need so much stuff?”
“For exactly those reasons. And babies need stimulation, and comfort. Here we go.” Peabody engaged a screen. A fresh-faced young woman popped on, smiling cheerfully.
“Welcome to the White Stork! How can we help you?”
“Registration list for Mavis Freestone, please.”
“Right away! Would you like to see the entire list of Ms. Freestone’s choices, or what is left to be fulfilled?”
“What’s left,” Eve said quickly. “Just what’s left.”
“Just one moment!”
“Why does she talk like that?” Eve questioned Peabody. “Like I’m brain dead.”
“She’s not—”
“Dallas?”
Such was the state of Eve’s nerves she nearly jumped at the sound of her name. Turning, she saw Tandy Willowby waddling toward her. “Oh, and it’s Peabody, right? We met at Mavis’s once.”
“Sure, I remember. How you doing?”
“Really good.” Tandy patted her belly. “Nearly coming to countdown. Are you here for Mavis?”
“Just tell me what to buy.” Eve was ready to beg. “I’m on the clock.”
“No problem. Actually, I’ve got just the thing. Cancel registration search,” she ordered. “It may be more than you want to spend—”
“I don’t care about that. Just wrap it up.”
“It’s a little too big. You know, I’ve had to waylay Mavis a dozen times, convince her not to buy the place out, to wait until after the shower. She’s got her heart set on this rocker system.”
Tandy moved through the aisles, leading the way through forests and meadows of baby merchandise with her long tail of sunny hair swinging. “I talked my boss into ordering one in, in Mavis’s colors. I knew if she didn’t get it as a gift, she’d snag it after the shower. I’ll show you our display model, then you can look at the one we ordered on screen. It’s in the warehouse.”
“It’ll be fine. Great. I’ll just pay for it. Hey!” Eve snapped when Peabody elbowed her.
“At least look at it.”
“Oh, you’ve got to see it,” Tandy agreed, her baby blue eyes wide and guileless. “It’s absolutely mag.”
What Eve saw when Tandy gestured was a minty green cushy deal sort of shaped like a long S, that for some reason made Peabody coo.
“It reclines, rocks, sways, vibrates, and plays music. There are twenty tunes in the default, and you can record and playback or download others. Or just the sound of the mother’s voice, the father’s voice, whatever you like.” Tandy ran a gentle hand over the top curve. “The material is stain and water resistant, and so soft. Just feel.”
Because it was obviously a requirement, Eve patted the chair. “Nice. Soft. Cushy. I’ll take it.”
“You have to sit in it,” Tandy insisted.
“I don’t—”
“Go on, Dallas.” Peabody gave Eve a nudge. “Try it out. You have to.”
“Jesus, all right, all right.” Feeling idiotic, Eve lowered to the chair, and felt it shift, just a bit, like a live thing. “It moved.”
“The gel cushions mold to your shape.” Tandy beamed. “It’ll adjust to you, or you can program a preferred setting—manually, or by voice recognition. Positions, movements, all can be adjusted manually or by voice—controls are under both arm pads—for right- or left-hand use. Just flip it open with a finger.”
Tandy demonstrated, revealing the board. “And there’s a new feature on the Delux model Mavis is loopy for. Baby sleeping, Mum’s tired?” Tandy tapped thr
ee buttons, and the chair hummed gently as its side opened and a small padded box lifted out and up.
“You just shift, lay the baby in the chair-side cradle, and both of you can take a little nap.”
“That is so completely uptown.” Peabody cooed again, like a mourning dove.
“It’s safe for up to twenty pounds, will also rock independent of the chair. There’s also a small storage compartment on the other side, to hold burp cloths, nursing pads, extra receiving blankets. I swear, it’ll do everything but feed and change the baby for you.”
“Okay.” With some relief, Eve pulled herself out of the chair.
“It got top ratings from Baby Style, Parenting, and Today’s Family magazines. The Mommy Channel had it as their top pick last year.”
“Sold.”
“Really?” A happy flush pinked Tandy’s cheeks. “Oh, that’s brilliant. That’s mag.”
“You can get it to the house, right, for the shower?”
“Absolutely. And since I have some pull around here, I’ll arrange for the second delivery to Mavis’s apartment to be included. No extra charge.”
“Appreciate it.” As an afterthought, Eve studied the chair again. “How much is this thing?”
When Tandy named the price, Peabody gulped audibly. Eve just stared and said, “Holy crap.”
“I know, it’s awfully dear, but it’s really worth the price. And I can offer you a ten percent discount on anything purchased today if you open a White Stork account.”
“No, no thanks.” That, Eve thought as she rubbed her hands over her face, might just be tempting fate. “I’ll pay the full shot. The one in the colors Mavis likes.”
“It’s a fully awesome gift, Dallas,” Peabody told her.
“It is. It really is.” Tandy’s eyes actually went damp. “She’s so lucky to have a friend like you.”
“Damn right.”
It’s only money, Eve reminded herself as she completed the transaction. Only a whole shitload of money. While she reeled from sticker shock, Peabody and Tandy bubbled on about babies, the shower, baby gadgets. When they segued into breast-feeding, Eve drew her line.
“We gotta go. Crime and stuff.”
“I’m so glad you stopped in, and not just because of the sale. I just can’t wait until the shower on Saturday. My social life’s a little thin these days,” she added with an easy laugh. “Mavis’s baby shower is the highlight on my calendar. Except for this one’s birthday.” She patted her belly. “The rocker system will be delivered the day before, by noon. Any problems, any at all, just contact me here.”
“Will do. Thanks, Tandy.”
“See you soon!”
It was with gratitude that Eve stepped out of the warm, scented, musical air and into the cold, windy noise of the city. “What time is it, Peabody?”
“Ah, about thirteen-thirty.”
“I want to go lie down in a dark room.”
“Well…”
“On duty, no rest for the traumatized. Soy fries will have to substitute for the comfort of oblivion.”
“We eat?” Peabody nearly did a dance. “We should go shopping more often.”
“Bite your tongue.”
4
EVE WASN’T SURE WHAT IT SAID ABOUT HER that she was more comfortable in the morgue than in a baby boutique. And she didn’t actually care. The cold white walls, the scent of death under the piney odors of cleansers were the familiar.
She pushed through the thick door into Autopsy as Morris, the chief medical examiner, transferred Bick Byson’s brain from his skull to a scale.
“A two-for-one sale, I see.” Morris—his spiffy suit of the day protected with a clear plastic cape—paused to enter data. Then he set the brain in a tray.
He wasn’t tall, but he was built in a way the chocolate brown suit and dull gold T-shirt exploited. He was oddly sexy with those dark, slightly slanted eyes and the ink black hair scooped back in a tight, intricate braid.
“That’s how I see it,” Eve agreed. “You concur. Same method, same killer?”
“Physical force and trauma. In technical terms, he whaled away on them. Binding, ankles, wrists. I’d be very surprised if the CSIs don’t find the tape came from the same roll for both your vics. Death by strangulation on each. Male vic was stunned—full contact just above the sternum. He also has, as you noted in your on-scene, bruises and lacerations on his knuckles. He fought back. I removed a few bits of ceramic from his back and buttocks.”
“Broken lamp. Looks like he grabbed it from the bedroom, came out into the living area, tried to use it as a weapon on the intruder.”
“No postmortem trauma on either. When your killer was done, he was done. No sexual assault on either. Your female vic…”
Morris wiped his sealed hands, then skirted around to where Natalie lay, cleaned, naked, and tagged.
“That’s not your Y-cut,” Eve observed with a frown as she studied the body.
“Quite an eye you have there, Dallas.” And his own twinkled with amusement. “No, I supervised a new ME. Our motto around here is Die To Learn. The female was tortured before death. Broken fingers. The angle and position of the breaks indicate a backward thrust.”
Morris held up his own hand, gripped his pinky with the other, and pulled it back and down. “Effective, and painful.”
Eve remembered the breathless, shocking pain when her father had snapped the bone in her arm. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”
“Burning—shoulder, belly, bottoms of the feet. Looks like contact burns with a laser pointer or something very similar. See the circular shape? It had to be pressed down very hard, very firm to not only burn the skin, but to leave that defined a burn.”
To get a better look, she slid on a pair of microgoggles. “No blurring, or very little on these. Her feet were bound tight at the ankles, but she’d jerk and struggle when he burned her. Had to clamp onto her foot with his hand, hold it still. Very serious about his work.”
She pulled off the goggles. “Her nose is broken.”
“Yes, but when we use the micros, you can see the detail bruising, both sides of the nostrils.” He picked up the pair Eve had laid aside, then offered them to Peabody when Eve jerked a thumb at her partner.
Putting them on, Peabody leaned down. “I just see a big mess of bruising.” She focused, frowning, as Morris shined a pinpoint light over the side of Natalie’s nose.
“Okay, yeah. I get it. I don’t think I’d have seen it, but I get it now. He had her mouth taped, then he clamped her nose closed—hard, with his thumb and finger. Cut off her air.”
“With the broken nose she’d have had considerable trouble breathing. He made it harder.”
“Interrogating her,” Eve said to Morris. “If it was a straight torture killing, he’d have done more. Cut her up some, broken more bones, burned her more severely and over more of her body. There’d most likely be some sexual abuse, or trauma to the breasts and genitals.”
“Agreed. He just wanted to hurt her. On the male, he skipped the interrogation portion of the program. Went from beating to strangling.”
“Because the woman told him what he needed to know, gave him what he needed to have,” Peabody concluded.
“And the second vic had to die because the first told the killer her boyfriend knew what she knew, or had seen what she’d seen. The motive’s in her,” Eve murmured.
At Central, Eve sat at her desk downing coffee and adding data and notes to her initial reports. She put in another call to the PA’s office to check on the warrant, got the runaround.
Lawyers, she thought. The accounting firm’s lawyers had knee-jerked a motion to block the warrant. Not unexpected, Eve mused, but they’d get it—not likely before the end of the business day, however.
She knee-jerked herself and called to harass the lab. The evidence had been gathered, was being processed. They weren’t miracle workers. Blah, blah.
What she had was two DBs—a couple—killed in their separate homes a few blocks
apart, about an hour apart. Female first. Same employer, different departments. Violent deaths, missing comp units and data discs.
No known enemies.
The killer had to have personal transportation, she mused. Can’t go hauling d-and-c units from murder scene to murder scene.
Frowning, she checked her incoming to see if Peabody had determined the types of units the victims owned. And found her efficient partner had copied her the list of units registered to both. Two desk units, two PPCs.
And that didn’t include the memo books—no required registration with CompuGuard—they must have owned, which, like the comps, hadn’t been on either scene.
Good equipment and fairly compact, she thought as she took a look at the models, but she couldn’t see the killer hauling Copperfield’s machines up Byson’s emergency evac.
No, he’d had a vehicle to transport them, to lock them safely away while he finished his night’s work.
Where did he park? Did he live close to either scene? Did he work alone?
Brought the binding tape with him, and probably the stunner, the laser pointer or whatever tool he’d used for the burns—preparation. Used weapons on hand for the killings. Opportunistic.
Knew female vic’s building lacked security cams, alarms. And that the second scene had better security. Scoped them out first, preparation again. And/or had personal knowledge of the scenes.
Had he been inside before the murders?
Prior personal contact with the victims?
She rose, set up her board, then sat again, angling her chair so she could study the faces of her dead.
“What did you know, Natalie? What did you have? What did you figure out? Had you worried, whatever it was.”
Called in sick the morning of the murder. Put on an extra lock, security peep, in a place you were moving out of in a few months. Yeah, you were worried.
But not enough to tell the sister, or the boss she was allegedly friendly with.
But Bick went into work that morning. Maybe not as worried, maybe to keep an ear to the ground.
And not worried, not scared enough to have the boyfriend come over, stay the night.
Not scared for your life, Eve concluded, despite the knife in the bedroom. Shook, upset, nervous—careful. But not scared for your life. Probably felt stupid, even a little embarrassed when you brought that knife into the bedroom with you. But you’re not scared enough to call the cops, even move in with the fiancé for a few days.