by J. D. Robb
“Punched her. Left jab.”
“I don’t think a punch, that’s really stupid. Backhand. A guy only slaps a woman if he wants to humiliate her. He punches if he’s pissed, drunk, or doesn’t give a shit about blood and damage. He backhands when he wants to hurt, and intimidate. Plus it looked like a backhand—knuckles on bone.”
She’d been hit in the face enough to recognize the signs.
“Smart and controlled enough not to punch, not to beat on her,” Eve said, “but not smart enough to leave the area clean. Not smart enough just to take the tarp with him. She’s got what looks like a rug burn on the heel of her right hand, and blue fibers on her pants, maybe carpet from a vehicle.”
“You think somebody grabbed her, forced her into a vehicle.”
“Possible. You have to get her here, to this empty unit, do what you do. He’s smart enough to take her valuables, including the coat, to play the bad mugging card. But he left her boots. Good boots, looked fairly new. If you’re a mugger who’d take the time to drag off the coat, why leave her boots?”
“If he brought her in here, he wanted privacy,” Peabody pointed out. “And time. It doesn’t look like rape. Why get her dressed again?”
“She was going to or coming from work.”
“From,” Peabody confirmed. “When I ran her I got an alert. Her husband contacted the police. She didn’t come home. Working late, but didn’t come home. She spoke to him via ’link as she was leaving the office—according to the alert—and that was shortly after twenty-two hundred.”
“That’s a lot of data for an alert, especially one on a woman who’s a few hours late getting home.”
“I thought so, too, so I ran him. Denzel Dickenson, Esquire. He’s Judge Gennifer Yung’s baby brother.”
“That would do it.” Eve blew out a breath. “This just got sticky.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
“Call in the sweepers, Peabody, and flag it priority. No point in not covering all asses when dealing with the judge’s dead sister-in-law.”
She pushed a hand through her hair, recalculated. She’d intended to go by the victim’s office building, retracing the likely route, getting a feel for the area. Then backtracking before continuing to the victim’s residence, gauging the ground, figuring the timing, the direction. But now—”
“The husband’s been pacing the floor for hours by now. Let’s go give him the bad news.”
“I hate this part,” Peabody murmured.
“When you don’t, it’s time to find another line of work.”
• • •
The Dickensons rated one of the four penthouse condos with roof garden atop one of the Upper East Side’s dignified buildings. All elegant gray stone and glass, it rose and rounded above a neighborhood where nannies and dog walkers ruled the sidewalks and parks.
Night security required clearance, which equaled, to Eve, a pain in the ass.
“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and Peabody, Detective Delia.” She held her badge up to the security screen. “We need to speak with Denzel Dickenson. Penthouse B.”
Please state the nature of your business, the butter-smooth computerized voice intoned.
“That would come under the heading of none of yours. Scan the badges and authorize access.”
I’m sorry, Penthouse B is secured for the night. Access to the building and any unit therein requires clearance from the manager, an authorized tenant, or notification of emergency status.
“Listen to me, you half-ass, chip-brained dipshit, this is official police business. Scan the badges and clear access. Otherwise I’ll have warrants issued immediately for the arrest of the building manager, the head of security, and the owners on the charge of obstruction of justice. And you’ll be in a junk pile by dawn.”
Inappropriate language is in violation of—
“Inappropriate language? Oh, I’ve got plenty more inappropriate language for you. Peabody, contact APA Cher Reo and begin processing warrants for all appropriate parties. Let’s see how they like getting dragged out of bed at this hour, cuffed, and transported to Central because this computerized tin god refuses access to police officers.”
“All over that, Lieutenant.”
Please submit your badges for scan, and place your palm on the palm plate for verification.
Eve held up her badge with one hand, slapped her other on the palm plate. “Clear the locks. Now.”
Identification is verified. Access granted.
Eve shoved through the door, strode across the black marble lobby floor to the glossy white elevator doors flanked by two man-sized urns exploding with red spiky flowers.
Please wait here until Mr. and/or Mrs. Dickenson is notified of your arrival.
“Can it, compu-jerk.” She walked straight into the elevator, Peabody scurrying after her. “Penthouse B,” she ordered. “Give me any shit, I swear to God I’ll stun your motherboard.”
As the elevator began its smooth climb, Peabody let out a sigh of pleasure. “That was fun.”
“I hate getting dicked around by electronics.”
“Well, actually you’re getting dicked around by the programmer.”
“You’re right.” Eve’s eyes narrowed. “You’re fucking-A right. Make a note to do a search and scan. I want to find out who programmed that officious bastard.”
“That could be even more fun.” Peabody’s cheerful smile faded when the elevator stopped. “This won’t be.”
They walked to Penthouse B. More security, Eve noted, and damn good at that. Palm plate, peep, camera. She pressed the buzzer to alert the system.
Hi!
A kid, Eve thought, momentarily confused.
We’re the Dickensons. Voices changed—male, female, young girl, young boy as they sounded off roll call. Denzel, Marta, Annabelle, Zack. Then a dog barked.
And that’s Cody, the boy’s voice continued. Who are you?
“Ah . . .” At a loss, Eve held up her badge to the camera.
She watched the red line scan. A beat later a more traditional computerized voice answered.
Identification scanned and verified. One moment please.
It took hardly more than that before Eve saw the security light blink from red to green.
The man who wrenched open the door wore navy sweatpants with a gray sweatshirt and well-worn running shoes. His close-cropped hair showed a hint of curl above a dark, exhausted face. His eyes, the color of bitter chocolate, widened for one heartbeat, then filled with fear. Before Eve could speak, grief buried even the fear.
“No. No. No.” He went straight down to his knees, clutching at his belly as if she’d kicked it.
Peabody immediately lowered to him. “Mr. Dickenson.”
“No,” he repeated as a dog the size of a Shetland pony trotted in. The dog looked at Eve. Eve considered her stunner. But the dog only whined and bellied over to Dickenson.
“Mr. Dickenson,” Peabody all but crooned. “Let me help you up. Let me help you to a chair.”
“Marta. No. I know who you are. I know you. Dallas. Murder cop. No.”
Because pity outweighed her distrust of a giant dog, Eve crouched down. “Mr. Dickenson, we need to talk.”
“Don’t say it. Don’t.” He lifted his head, looked desperately into Eve’s eyes. “Please don’t say it.”
“I’m sorry.”
He wept. Wrapping his arms around the dog, swaying and rocking on his knees, he wept.
It had to be said. Even when it was known, it had to be said, for the record, and Eve knew, for the man.
“Mr. Dickenson, I regret to inform you your wife was killed. We’re very sorry for your loss.”
“Marta. Marta. Marta.” He said it like a chant, like a prayer.
“Can we call someone for you?” Peabody asked gently. “Your sister? A neighbor
?”
“How? How?”
“Let’s go sit down,” Eve told him, and offered her hand.
He stared at it, then put his, trembling, into it. He was a tall man, well-built. It took both of them to pull him to his feet where he swayed like a drunk.
“I can’t . . . What?”
“We’re going to go sit down.” As she spoke, Peabody guided him into a spacious living area full of color, of comfort and the clutter of family with kids and a monster dog. “I’m going to get you some water, all right?” Peabody continued. “Do you want me to contact your sister?”
“Genny? Yes. Genny.”
“All right. Sit right here.”
He eased down, and the dog immediately planted its massive paws on his legs, laid its enormous head in his lap. As Peabody went off to find the kitchen, Dickenson turned to Eve. Tears continued to stream out of his eyes but they’d cleared of the initial shock.
“Marta. Where’s Marta?”
“She’s with the medical examiner.” She saw Dickenson jerk, but pushed on. “He’ll take care of her. We’ll take care of her. I know this is difficult, Mr. Dickenson, but I have to ask you some questions.”
“Tell me how. You have to tell me what happened. She didn’t come home. Why didn’t she come home?”
“That’s what we need to find out. When was your last contact with your wife?”
“We spoke at about ten. She was working late, and she called as she was leaving the office. I said, get a car, Marta, get the car service, and she called me a worrywart, but I didn’t want her walking to the subway or trying to hail a cab. It’s so cold tonight.”
“Did she arrange for a car service?”
“No. She just laughed. She said the walk to the subway would do her good. She’d been chained to her computer most of the day, and she—she—she wanted to lose five pounds. Oh my God. Oh God. What happened? Was there an accident? No,” he said with a shake of his head. “Murder cop. You’re Homicide. Somebody killed Marta. Somebody killed my wife, my Marta. Why? Why?”
“Do you know of anyone who’d want to harm her?”
“No. Absolutely not. No one. No. She doesn’t have an enemy in the world.”
Peabody came back in with a glass of water. “Your sister and her husband are on their way.”
“Thank you. Was it a mugging? I don’t understand. If someone had wanted her bag, her jewelry, she’d have given it to them. We made a promise to each other when we decided to stay in the city. We wouldn’t take stupid chances. We have children.” The hand holding the water began to shake again. “The children. What am I going to tell our kids? How can I tell our kids?”
“Are your children home?” Eve asked him.
“Yes, of course. They’re sleeping. They’ll expect her to be here when they get up for school. She’s always here when they get up for school.”
“Mr. Dickenson, I have to ask. Were there any problems in your marriage?”
“No. I’m a lawyer. My sister’s a criminal court judge. I know you have to look at me. So look,” he said with eyes welling again. “Look. Get it done. But tell me what happened to my wife. You tell me what happened to Marta.”
Fast, Eve knew. Fast and brief. “Her body was found shortly after two this morning at the base of an exterior stairway of a building approximately eight blocks from her office. Her neck was broken.”
His breath came out, tore, sucked back again. “She wouldn’t have walked that far, not at night, not alone. And she didn’t fall or you wouldn’t be here. Was she—was she raped?”
“There was no indication of sexual assault from the initial examination. Mr. Dickenson, did you attempt to contact your wife between your last call and our arrival here?”
“I’ve been calling her ’link every few minutes. I started around ten-thirty, I think, but she didn’t answer. She’d never have let me worry like this, all this time. I knew . . . I need a minute.” He got shakily to his feet. “I need a minute,” he repeated and rushed out of the room.
The dog looked after him, then walked cautiously to Peabody, lifted a paw to her knee.
“Sometimes it’s worse than others,” Peabody murmured, and gave the dog what comfort she could.
EVE SHOVED TO HER FEET, TOOK A TURN around the room as much to release tension as get a more solid feel for the Dickenson household.
Framed photos scattered around—family shots for the most part showing the victim in much happier days with her husband, with the kids. Other shots of the kids—a girl of serious beauty still on the innocent side of puberty and a boy with an infectious cuteness that matched the voice on security.
Art tended toward landscapes, waterscapes, all in soft, pretty colors. The kind of art people could actually understand, Eve mused. Nothing splashy or pompous, not in the art, not in the furnishings. They’d gone for comfort and what Eve supposed was kid-friendly. Maybe dog-friendly. Family-friendly.
But there was serious money here. The real estate alone spoke of it in quiet, discreet tones.
The fireplace—shown in one of the photos with Christmas stockings and kids and the big red flowers people decided they had to have at Christmas—still simmered. Real fireplace with real wood. He’d kept the home fires burning, Eve thought with another stab of pity that she reminded herself did neither victim or survivor any good.
“Big space,” Eve said idly.
“Two kids and a dog this size? They need it.”
“Yeah. No house in the ’burbs, so they made one in the city. He’s a corporate lawyer, right?” She remembered from the quick run she’d done.
“Yeah, full partner. Grimes, Dickenson, Harley, and Schmidt.”
“Why do law firms actually sound like law firms? What’s his deal?”
Peabody balanced her PPC and the dog’s massive head. “Specializes in estate planning, tax law. Money stuff.”
“Like our wit. Interesting. See if there’s a connection between Dickenson and his firm and Whitestone and his.”
“Dickenson’s firm has two floors in . . . Roarke’s building—his headquarters.”
“More juicy real estate.”
“No cross on him and the wit, but they might have some clients who overlap.”
“I just bet they do.” She paused at the sound of the front door opening, turned.
Judge Gennifer Yung rushed in. Her stride hitched when she saw Eve, and for a moment—just a moment—her body seemed to sag. Then her shoulders straightened, her face went blank. She crossed to Eve in front of a slight-bodied man of Asian descent.
“Lieutenant.”
“Judge Yung. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. My brother?”
“He needed a minute.”
Judge Yung nodded. “Daniel, this is Lieutenant Dallas, and Detective Peabody. My husband, Doctor Yung.”
“The children,” Dr. Yung said. “Do they know?”
“They’re sleeping. I don’t believe they know anything’s wrong.”
The dog had already deserted Peabody, tail slapping like a whip as he wiggled around the judge and her husband.
“All right, Cody, good boy. Sit down. Sit.”
A striking woman with brown skin smooth, dark eyes prominent, a reputation for the fierce and fearless on the bench, Judge Yung laid a hand on Cody’s head, stroked. Stroked.
“I’m going to speak with Denzel. I know you have questions, and I know time is always at a premium, but I’m going to take a few moments with—” She broke off when Denzel came out, his face ravaged.
“Genny. Oh God, Genny. Marta.”
“I know. Honey, I know.” She went to him, wrapped her arms around him.
“Someone broke her neck.”
“What?” The judge pulled back, took her brother’s face in her hands. “What?”
“They said her
neck . . . Why didn’t I make her take the car service? Why didn’t I call them and make her take it?”
“Ssh now. Ssh. Come with me. We’re going to go in the other room for a while. Just lean on me, baby. Daniel.”
“Yes, of course.” Yung turned to Eve. “Would you like some coffee?”
She thought she could kill for some, but didn’t want to take the time. “We’re fine. Were you home when your brother-in-law contacted your wife?”
“Yes. It was about midnight, and he was frantic by then. Marta wasn’t answering her ’link and was nearly two hours late. He’d already contacted night security, and they had her logged out about ten, I believe. He’d called the police, but as you know there’s little done when a person is, seemingly, late coming home. So he called his sister for help.”
“I take it, as far as you know, Mrs. Dickenson wasn’t in the habit of being late.”
“Absolutely not. That is, not without letting Denzel know. She wouldn’t worry him that way, any more than he would worry her. We knew something was wrong, but I never . . . Not this.”
“How well did you know Mrs. Dickenson?”
“Excuse me, can we sit? This is very hard. I feel . . .” He lowered into a chair. “I feel not altogether myself.”
“Can I get you some water, Doctor Yung?”
He gave Peabody a quiet smile. “No, but thank you. You asked how well I knew Marta,” he said, turning back to Eve. “Very well. We’re family, and for Genny and Denzel—and Marta—family is everything. My wife and her brother have always been close. The children.” He glanced toward a curve of stairs. “I’m worried about the children. They’re so young to face something like this, and so much of their innocence ends tonight.”
He closed his eyes a moment.
“You’ll want to know what their marriage—Marta and Denzel’s—was like. I’ve been married to a lawyer—and a judge—for thirty-six years,” he added, then with a long sigh, folded his hands. “I know it’s something you must pursue. I’ll tell you they loved each other, very much. They had a good life, a happy family. Did they sometimes disagree, even fight? Of course. But they worked together, suited each other, made each other whole, if you understand. Sometimes you’re very lucky with the choices you make, the people who come into your life. They were very lucky.”