by J. D. Robb
“Oh, hell.” Eve drew it in, then set it aside. “Bruises on her thighs and the vaginal area. Red corded ribbon around her throat.”
It was dug into her skin so the bruised flesh puffed around it, then the tails draped down to her breasts.
“Time of death, Peabody?”
“Getting it.” Peabody drew back the gauge, studied the readout. “Twenty-two twenty.”
“About three hours ago. And the kids found her?”
“Just after midnight. First on scene responded, dealt with the kids, took a visual from above, and called it in at quarter to one.”
“Okay.” Steeling herself, she took the microgoggles, slipped them on, then bent over the ruined face. “Took his time here. Didn’t hack at her. Neat, precise cuts. Almost surgical, like he was doing a fucking transplant. So the eyes were what he was after. They were the prize. The beating, the rape, those were just the prelude.”
She eased back and took off the goggles. “Let’s turn her, check the back.”
There was nothing but the darkened flesh from the settling of blood, and what Eve identified as grass stains on the buttocks and down the thighs.
“Came at her from behind, that’s what he did. But it didn’t matter to him if she saw him. Knocked her down—sidewalk or pavement. No, gravelly path. See the scrapes on her elbows? Smacks her around. She tries to fight him off, tries to scream. Maybe she does scream, but he’s hauling her away, somewhere he can have his fun without anyone trying to interfere. Drags her, across the grass. Beats her into submission, rapes her. Ties the cord around her neck, kills her. When that part of the job’s over, it’s time for the real business.”
Eve replaced the goggles. “Strip off what’s left of her clothes, take her shoes, anything else she was wearing. Jewelry, anything that individualizes her. Carry her down here. Pose her. Take the eyes—carefully. Check the pose, make any necessary adjustments. Wash off all that blood in the lake if you want. Clean up, take your prize, and be on your way.”
“Ritual killing?”
“His ritual anyway. They can bag her,” Eve said as she straightened. “Let’s see if we can find the kill site.”
Roarke watched her slide her feet back into the shoes. She’d have been better off barefoot, he mused, but that wasn’t an option the lieutenant would consider.
Despite the heels, the glamorous dress—worse for wear now—the glitter of diamonds, she was every inch the cop. Tall, lean, steady as the rocks she’d just climbed on to view some new horror. You wouldn’t see the horror in her eyes, those long, golden brown eyes. She looked pale in the harsh lights, and the glare of them only accentuated her sharp features. Her hair, nearly the same color as those eyes, was short, choppy, and mussed now from the breeze off the water.
He watched her stop, hold a brief conversation with a uniform. Her voice would be flat, he knew, and brisk, and reveal nothing of what she felt.
He saw her gesture, and saw the stalwart and more comfortably dressed Peabody nod. Then Eve was peeling off from the group of cops and heading back to him.
“You’re going to want to go on home,” she told him. “This is going to take some time.”
“I suspect it will. Rape, strangulation, mutilation.” He lifted a brow when her eyes narrowed. “I keep my ear to the ground when it involves my cop. Can I help?”
“No. I’m keeping civilians—even you—out. He didn’t kill her down there, so we need to find where he did. I probably won’t make it home tonight.”
“Would you like me to bring you, or send you, a change of clothes?”
Since even with his amazing powers, he couldn’t just snap his fingers and put her in boots and trousers, she shook her head. “I’ve got spare stuff in my locker at Central.” She glanced down at the dress, sighed at the smears of dirt, the small tears, the stains from body fluid. She’d tried to be careful, but there you go, and God knew what he paid for the damn thing.
“Sorry about the dress.”
“It’s not important. Get in touch when you can.”
“Sure.”
She struggled—knew he knew she struggled—not to wince when he skimmed a finger down the dent in her chin, when he leaned down and brushed his lips to hers. “Good luck, Lieutenant.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
As he walked back to the limo, he heard her raise her voice. “Okay, boys and girls, fan out. Teams of two. Standard evidence search.”
He wouldn’t have carried her far, Eve deduced. What would be the point? The added time, trouble, the additional risk of being seen. Still, they were talking Central Park, so it wasn’t going to be quick and easy unless they ran into incredible luck.
She did, inside of thirty minutes.
“Here.” She held up a hand to stop Peabody, then crouched. “Ground’s torn up some. Hand me the goggles. Yeah, yeah,” she said after she’d strapped them on. “We got some blood here.”
She went down on hands and knees, her nose nearly to the ground, like a hound scenting prey. “I want this area cordoned off. Call the sweepers. I want to see if they can find any trace. Look here.”
She got tweezers out of the field kit. “Broken fingernail. Hers,” she decided when she held it up to the light. “Didn’t make it easy for him, did you, Elisa? You did what you could.”
She bagged the nail, then sat back on her heels.
“Dragged her over the grass. You can see where she tried to dig in. Lost a shoe. That’s why she’s got grass stains and dirt on one foot. But he went back for it. Took her clothes with him.”
She pushed to her feet. “We’ll check bins in a ten-block radius in case he dumped them. They’ll be torn, bloody, dirty. We’ll see if we can get a description of what she was wearing, but even without it, we’ll look. Kept them though, didn’t you?” she murmured. “Kept them as a memento.”
“She lives a couple blocks from here,” Peabody commented. “Grabbed her close to home, dragged her here, did the job, then carried her over to the dump site.”
“We’ll canvass. Let’s get this coordinated, then take her residence.”
Peabody cleared her throat, studied Eve’s dress. “You’re going like that?”
“Got a better idea?”
It was hard not to feel a little ridiculous, striding in her ruined dress and mile-high shoes toward the night droid on door duty in front of Maplewood’s building.
At least she had her badge. It was one of those things she never left home without. “Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, NYPSD. Regarding Elisa Maplewood. She lives here?”
“I’ll need to scan your IDs to verify.”
He looked pretty spiffy for so early in the morning, but that was a droid for you. He wore a natty red uniform with silver trim, and was designed to replicate a man in his mid-fifties, just a bit of silver at the temples to match the braid.
“These are in order. Ms. Maplewood is a live-in domestic, employed by Mr. and Mrs. Luther Vanderlea. What’s this about?”
“Did you see Ms. Maplewood tonight?”
“I’m midnight to six. Haven’t seen her.”
“We’ll need to see the Vanderleas.”
“Mr. Vanderlea is out of town. You’ll need to clear a visit with the desk. Comp’s on this time of night.”
He unlocked the doors, walked in with them. “Secondary scan for ID,” he informed them.
It irritated, but Eve passed her badge through the electronics on the fancy desk in the black-and-white lobby.
YOUR IDENTIFICATION IS VERIFIED, DALLAS, LIEUTENANT EVE. WHAT IS THE NATURE OF YOUR BUSINESS?
“I need to speak with Mrs. Luther Vanderlea, regarding her employee, Elisa Maplewood.”
ONE MOMENT WHILE MRS. VANDERLEA IS CONTACTED.
The droid hovered while they waited. Quiet music played. It had switched on when they’d started across the lobby. Set to activate, Eve assumed, when a human entered.
Why people needed music to cross a room, she couldn’t say.
The lights were dim
, the flowers fresh. A few good pieces of furniture—in case you wanted to sit down and listen to the recorded music—were arranged tastefully. There were two elevators in the south wall, and four security cameras to sweep the lobby.
The Vanderleas had a lot of bucks under the belt.
“Where’s Mr. Vanderlea?” she asked the droid.
“Is this an official inquiry?”
“No, I’m just a nosy so-and-so.” She waved her badge under his nose. “Yes, this is an official inquiry.”
“Mr. Vanderlea is in Madrid on business.”
“When did he leave?”
“Two days ago. He’s due back tomorrow evening.”
“What—” She broke off as the comp signaled.
MRS. VANDERLEA WILL SEE YOU NOW. PLEASE TAKE ELEVATOR A TO THE FIFTY-FIRST FLOOR. YOU WILL FIND MRS. VANDERLEA IN PENTHOUSE B.
“Thanks.” Even as they crossed the checkerboard floor, the elevator doors opened. “Why do we thank machines?” Eve wondered out loud. “They couldn’t possibly give a shit.”
“One of those innate human traits. That’s why programmers have them thanking us, too, I guess. You ever been to Madrid?”
“No. Maybe. No,” she decided. She’d been a lot of places over the last couple of years. “I don’t think. Do you know who designs shoes like the ones I’m wearing, Peabody?”
“The shoe god. Those are magolicious shoes, sir.”
“No, not the shoe god. These are the product of a man, a devious flesh and blood man, who secretly hates all women. By designing shoes like this, he can torture them for profit.”
“They make your legs look a hundred feet tall.”
“Yeah, that’s what I want all right. A pair of hundred-foot legs.” Resigned, she stepped off on fifty-one.
The door to Penthouse B was wide as a truck, and opened by a petite woman in her thirties wearing a moss green dressing gown.
Her hair was long and sleep-tousled, and was a deep, dark red with subtle gold streaks streamed through it.
“Lieutenant Dallas? God, is that a Leonardo?”
Since she was goggling at the dress, it didn’t take Eve long to conclude she was talking about it. “Probably.” As Leonardo was not only the current darling of the fashionable set, but also the main squeeze of Eve’s closest friend. “I was . . . at a thing. My partner, Detective Peabody. Mrs. Vanderlea?”
“Yes, I’m Deann Vanderlea. What’s this about?”
“Can we come in, Mrs. Vanderlea?”
“Yes, of course. I’m confused. When they called from downstairs and said the police wanted to see me, my first thought was something happened to Luther. But I’d have gotten a call from Madrid, wouldn’t I?” She smiled, uncertainly. “Nothing’s happened to Luther, has it?”
“We’re not here about your husband. This concerns Elisa Maplewood.”
“Elisa? Well, she’s in bed at this hour. Elisa can’t be in any trouble.” She folded her arms. “What’s this about?”
“When did you last see Ms. Maplewood?”
“Right before I went to bed. About ten. I went to bed early. I had a headache. What is this?”
“I’m sorry to tell you, Mrs. Vanderlea, but Ms. Maplewood is dead. She was killed earlier tonight.”
“That—that’s just ridiculous. She’s in bed.”
The simplest, cleanest way, Eve knew, was not to argue. “You may want to check on that.”
“It’s nearly four in the morning. Of course she’s in bed. Her suite is back here, off the kitchen.”
She swept away, through the spacious living area, furnished in what Eve recognized as antiques. A lot of gleaming wood and curved lines, deep colors, complex patterns and sparkling glassware. It flowed into a media room, with the wall screen recessed, and the game and communication center housed in some sort of cabinet. Armoire, she corrected. That’s what Roarke called those big-ass cabinets.
A dining room angled off to the side, with the kitchen behind it.
“I’d like you to wait here, please.”
Snippy now, Eve noted. Irritated and afraid.
Mrs. Vanderlea opened a set of wide pocket doors and walked into what Eve assumed was Elisa Maplewood’s personal area.
“This place is huge,” Peabody whispered.
“Yeah, lots of space, lots of stuff.” She looked around the kitchen. Everything was silver and black. Dramatic, efficient, and so clean she doubted even a team of sweepers would come up with a single mote of dust.
It wasn’t that different a setup than the one in Roarke’s house. She didn’t think of the kitchen as hers. That was Summerset’s province, and she was more than happy to let him rule there.
“I’ve met her before.”
Peabody glanced back from her ogling of the massive AutoChef. “You know Vanderlea?”
“Met them, don’t know them. One of the ‘dos’ I got dragged to. Roarke knows them. I didn’t place the name, who the hell can remember all those people? But her face clicked.”
She turned as Mrs. Vanderlea hurried back into the room. “She’s not there. I don’t understand. She’s not in her room, or anywhere in her suite. Vonnie’s sleeping. Her daughter, her little girl. I don’t understand.”
“Does she often go out at night?”
“No, of course she—Mignon!” With this, she dashed back into Elisa’s suite.
“Who the hell is Mignon?” Eve muttered.
“Maybe Maplewood switched to girls. Might have a lover.”
“Mignon’s not here.” Deann was sheet-white now, and her fingers trembled as she held them to her throat.
“Who is—”
“Our dog.” She spoke quickly, the words jumping out of her mouth. “Really Elisa’s dog, emotionally. A little teacup poodle I bought a few months ago—for company, for the girls, but Mignon bonded with Elisa. She—she probably took her for a walk. She often does that the last thing at night. She took the dog for a walk. Oh, God. Oh, my God.”
“Mrs. Vanderlea, why don’t you sit down? Peabody, some water.”
“Was there an accident? Oh God, was there an accident?” There weren’t tears, not yet, but Eve knew there would be.
“No, I’m sorry, it wasn’t an accident. Ms. Maplewood was attacked, in the park.”
“Attacked?” She said it slowly, as if the word were foreign. “Attacked?”
“She was murdered.”
“No. No.”
“Drink a little water, ma’am.” Peabody pressed the glass she’d poured into Deann’s hands. “Sip a little water.”
“I can’t. I can’t. How can this be? We were just talking, a few hours ago. We were sitting right here. She told me to take a blocker and go to bed. And I did. We . . . the girls were tucked in for the night, and she made me tea and told me to go to bed. How did this happen? What happened?”
No, Eve thought. It wasn’t the time to make it worse with details. “Drink some water.” She noticed Peabody going over to close the pocket doors.
The kid, Eve remembered. This wasn’t a conversation a child should hear, if she should wake.
When she did wake, Eve thought, her world would be changed, irrevocably.
Chapter 2
“How long has she worked for you?” Eve knew the answer, but it would be easier to guide Deann over smooth ground before they moved to the rocks.
“Two years. Two years. I—we—my husband travels a great deal, and I decided I wanted live-in help rather than just the day staff and droids. More for company, I suppose. I hired Elisa because I liked her.”
She ran a hand over her face and made an obvious effort to settle. “She was qualified, of course, but we just hit it off right away. If I were to hire someone who’d live in my house, be a part of my household, I wanted it to be someone I was comfortable with, on a personal level. The other deciding factor was Vonnie. Yvonne, her daughter. I have a little girl, I have Zanna. They’re the same age, and I thought they’d be playmates. They are. They’re like family. They are family. Oh God, Vonn
ie.”
She pressed her hands to her mouth, and now the tears came. “She’s only four. She’s just a baby. How will I tell her that her mother’s . . . How will I tell her?”
“We can do that, Mrs. Vanderlea.” Peabody sat. “We’ll talk to her, and have a counselor from Child Protection available for her.”
“She doesn’t know you.” Deann pushed to her feet, walked across the room to a drawer, took out tissues. “She’d only be more frightened and confused if she heard . . . from a stranger. I have to tell her. I have to find the way to tell her.”
She dabbed her cheeks with a tissue. “I need a second.”
“Take your time,” Eve told her.
“We’re friends. Like Zanna and Vonnie. It wasn’t . . . our relationship wasn’t like employer and employee. Her parents . . .”
Deann drew in a breath, long, deep. Eve gave her top points for control when she came back to the table. “Her mother lives downtown, with Elisa’s stepfather. Her father, ah, he’s in Philadelphia. I can . . . I can get in touch with them. I think, they need to hear this from me first. They need . . . I have to call Luther. I have to tell him.”
“Are you sure you want to handle this yourself?” Eve asked her.
“She would have done it for me.” When her voice broke, she pressed her lips together, bore down. “She would have taken care of my baby, and I’ll take care of hers. She would have . . . Oh, God, how could this happen?”
“Did she mention any problems to you? Speak of being concerned about someone who bothered her, or made threats?”
“No. No. She would have. People liked Elisa.”
“Was she involved with anyone—romantically, socially?”
“No. She really wasn’t dating at this point. She’d had a difficult divorce, and was interested in creating a stable home for her daughter, and just—as she put it—giving men a rest.”
“Was there someone she rebuffed or discouraged?”
“Not that I . . . was she raped?” Deann’s hands fisted on the table.
“The medical examiner has yet to determine—” Eve broke off when Deann’s hand shot out, gripped hers.