by J. D. Robb
“You know, and I won’t have you holding back. She was my friend.”
“The indications are she was raped, yes.”
The hand tightened on Eve’s, trembled once, violently, then released. “You’ll find him. You’ll find him and you’ll make him pay.”
“That’s my intention. If you want to help me do that, I need you to think. If there’s anything, however insignificant it seems to you. If she said anything, however casually.”
“She would have fought,” Deann stated. “Her husband was abusive, and she got counseling, she got help, and she left him. She learned to stand up for herself. She would have fought.”
“She did. Where’s the ex-husband?”
“I’d like to say he’s sweating in hell, but he’s in the Caribbean with his current bimbo. He lives there, runs some sort of dive shop. He hasn’t seen his own child, not once, not ever. Elisa was eight months pregnant when she filed for divorce. I won’t let him have that child.”
A combative light glowed on her face now, and the heat of it toughened her voice. “I’ll fight him if he tries to take custody. I can do that for her.”
“When’s the last time she heard from him?”
“A few months ago, I think, when his child support payment was late again. Bitching and complaining about having to give her his money when she had this cozy setup here.” She drew that long breath again. “The money went directly into an account for Vonnie, for her education. Not that he’d think of that.”
“Did you ever meet him?”
“No, I was denied that dubious pleasure. To my knowledge he hasn’t been back to New York in four years. I’m not thinking very clearly yet,” she admitted. “But I will. I can promise you, I’ll think very clearly, very carefully, and do anything I can to help you. But I need to call my husband now. I need to talk to Luther—and to be alone, please. To be alone so I can find the right way to tell Vonnie when she wakes up. To tell Vonnie and my own little girl.”
“We’ll need to see her rooms, look through her things. Some time tomorrow. Is that a problem?”
“No. I’d let you do it now, but . . .” She looked back toward the door. “I want Vonnie to sleep, as long as she can.”
Eve rose. “If you’d get in touch with me in the morning then.”
“I will. I’m sorry, I’ve completely forgotten who you are.”
“Dallas. Lieutenant Dallas. Detective Peabody.”
“Right. Right. I admired your dress when you came to the door. It seems like years ago already.” She got up, rubbing at her face as she studied Eve. “You seem familiar to me. I can’t figure out if it’s because it seems you’ve been here for years, or if you are.”
“I think we met before, at some charity dinner or something.”
“At a charity dinner? Oh, well, of course. Roarke. You’re Roarke’s wife. Roarke’s cop, people call you. I don’t have all my wits.”
“No problem. I’m sorry to meet you again under these circumstances.”
Her gaze sharpened now, and the warrior gleam still lit her face. “When people talk about Roarke’s cop over their cocktails and canapés, they say she’s a little scary, a little mean, and very relentless. Would that be a fair description?”
“Close enough.”
“Good. Good.” Deann held out her hand, took Eve’s firmly. “Because you’re my cop now, too.”
“She’s got a tough road over the next few days,” Peabody commented as they rode down to the lobby. “She strikes me as the kind who’ll handle it when she gets her balance.”
“She’s got spine,” Eve agreed. “We’ll look at the ex-husband. Could be he decided to come up to New York. Talk to the vic’s parents, other friends. Get a clearer picture of her routine from the Vanderleas.”
“It wasn’t a chance kill. The mutilation takes it out of the box for me. The setup, the pose. If it wasn’t personal, a one-on-one sort of thing, it was planned, at least.”
“Agreed.” They crossed the lobby, and headed out to the waiting black-and-white. “Maplewood walked the dog at night. A routine, a pattern. Killer notices her, notices the pattern, and lies in wait. Tells me he knew the dog wouldn’t go for him, or had a way to incapacitate the dog.”
“Have you ever seen one of those little poodles?” Peabody held her hands together to form a little cup.
“Still got teeth, right?”
She stood just outside the car, scanning the neighborhood. Well lit. Security droids would patrol regularly. Doormen on duty 24/7. There would have been some vehicular traffic that time of night, during the attack.
“She walked the dog into the park. Just the verges, probably, but she went inside. Felt safe. She lives here, knows the area. Probably stayed close to the street, but not close enough. He’d have to be fast. Have to be waiting, almost certainly.”
She left the sidewalk herself, picturing it. “Let the dog sniff around the trees, do the dog thing. It’s a nice night. She’d relax, enjoy it. She and Vanderlea might’ve been pals, but she still worked in there, and hard. You could see by her hands. She’d enjoy a little time out here with the dog, just walking, just hanging.”
She played her light over the grass, toward the grab spot that was surrounded by barricades. “He waited until she was out of sight of the street. Just far enough. Killed the dog or the dog ran off.”
“Killed the dog?” Peabody’s immediate distress had Eve shaking her head.
“A guy beats, rapes, strangles, and mutilates a woman, I don’t think he’s going to see offing a dog as crossing any lines.”
“Jeez.”
Eve headed back toward the car. She could go home, change. Home was closer than Central. It would save her the indignity of walking through Central in her current attire. A point that couldn’t be overvalued.
“The black-and-white can take us to my place. We can put together what we’ve got, catch a couple hours’ sleep and start fresh in the morning.”
“I hear that. I also hear the unspoken. You don’t want to go to Central in your party dress.”
“Shut up, Peabody.”
It was after five A.M. when Eve crept into the bedroom. She stripped off as she crossed to the bed, letting clothes lay where they fell, then crawled naked into bed.
She hadn’t made a sound, had barely shifted the mattress, but Roarke’s arm circled her waist, and drew her back against him.
“Didn’t mean to wake you up. I’m going to catch a couple hours. Peabody’s bunked in her favorite guest room.”
“Turn it off, then.” His lips brushed her hair. “Just sleep.”
“Two hours,” she murmured. And turned it off.
Her next, not quite coherent thought was: Coffee.
She could smell it. The seductive scent climbed into her sleeping brain like a lover up a flower-strewn trellis. Then she blinked her eyes open, and saw Roarke.
He was invariably up before her, and as usual was already dressed in one of his master-of-the-world suits. But instead of being in the sitting area of the bedroom, as was his habit, scanning the early stock reports and whatever over his breakfast, he was sitting on the side of the bed, looking at her.
“What’s up? Something happen? Was there another—?”
“No. Relax.” He pressed a hand to her shoulder to hold her down when she started to spring up. “I’m your wake-up call, complete with coffee.” He moved the cup into her line of sight.
And watched her eyes glaze over with longing.
“Gimme.”
He eased back, handed it over, waited while she took her first, desperate swallow. “You know, darling, if caffeine ever makes it to the illegals list, you’re going to have to register as an addict.”
“They try to make coffee an illegal, I’ll kill them all, and it won’t be an issue. How do I rate coffee in bed?”
“I love you.”
“Yeah, you do.” She took another gulp, grinned. “Sucker.”
“That’s no way to persuade me to get you a
second cup.”
“I love you back?”
“That would probably work.” He rubbed a thumb along the shadows already dogging her eyes. “You need more than two hours, Lieutenant.”
“It’s all I can spare. I’ll make it up. Eventually. Gonna grab a shower.”
She was up, and took what was left of the coffee with her into the bathroom. He heard her call for jets on full, at one-oh-one. And only shook his head at her habit of boiling herself awake every morning.
He’d see that she got some fuel in her, and hopefully wouldn’t have to tie her down and force-feed her. He’d just begun to program the AutoChef for breakfast, when he heard the quick padding steps behind him.
“I’d swear there was a chip in your head that signals any time anyone so much as thinks of food.” Roarke glanced down at the pudgy cat rubbing hopefully against his leg. “I’ll wager you’ve already been fed in the kitchen.”
Galahad purred like an engine and rubbed harder. Ignoring him for the moment, Roarke selected French toast for Eve, something she had a hard time resisting. He added a couple rashers of bacon, knowing his own weakness where the cat was concerned.
Eve came out wearing a short white terry robe. “I’m just going to grab something at Central when . . .” She sniffed the air, spotted the plate of French toast. “That was low.”
“Yes.” He patted the seat beside him, then moved the cat when Galahad took him up on the invitation. “Not you. Sit down, Eve. You can spare fifteen minutes for some breakfast.”
“Maybe. Besides, I should fill you in on a couple things. Two birds, time efficiency.” She sat, poured syrup lavishly over bread.
She took a bite, nudged the cat back as he tried to belly toward her plate, then reached for the fresh coffee Roarke poured. “The victim worked for Luther and Deann Vanderlea.”
“Of Vanderlea Antiquities?”
“That’s what it said when I ran his data. How well do you know them?”
“I used Vanderlea extensively when furnishing this house, and others. Consulted with his father for most of it, but I know Luther and his wife. I wouldn’t call them personal friends, but certainly friendly acquaintances. He’s knowledgeable about his business, and very involved in the running of it at this stage. Pleasant enough people, and she’s very bright and charming. Are they suspects?”
“Luther was in Madrid at the time of the murder. As far as I can confirm at this point. Wife’s not on my list. In fact, unless she’s an award-winning actress, she and the victim were as much friends as boss and domestic. More. She took it hard, but stood up to it. I liked her.”
“I can tell you, from what I know of Luther, I can’t see him raping a woman, much less murdering one and cutting out her eyes.”
“He the type who might try to diddle with the maid under his wife’s nose?”
“One never knows what a man might try to diddle with under his wife’s nose, but it wouldn’t be my call where he’s concerned, no. They strike me as very happy together. I think they have a young child.”
“Girl, age four. Same age as the victim’s daughter. Deann Vanderlea’s having a very hard morning.”
“The victim have a spouse?”
“Ex. Lives in the Caribbean. Abusive history. We’ll look at him close.”
“Current lover?”
“Not according to Deann. Victim, Elisa Maplewood, purportedly went out, between ten and midnight, to walk the little foo-foo dog. We’ll get the exact from building security. Strolled into the park where he grabbed her. Waited—had to be waiting—attacked, raped, strangled, then carted her over to the rocks to lay her out, finish his job. Are the eyes a symbol?” she wondered. “Windows to the soul, an eye for an eye? Or a twisted religious ritual? Maybe just a souvenir.”
“You’ll want Mira.”
“Oh yeah.” Eve thought of the city’s top profiler. “I’m pulling her in this morning.”
She’d cleaned her plate while she’d talked and got up now to dress. “We could get lucky, and this was a one-time deal.”
“Why do you think it’s not?”
“Too organized and precise. Too many symbols. The eyes, red ribbon, the pose. Maybe we find all these apply directly somehow to Elisa Maplewood, but I think they apply to the killer rather than the victim. They mean something to him, personally. Elisa may have been a type: physically, her location, her background, something of the sort. Or it may have been enough for her to be female and available.”
“Do you want my help with the Vanderleas?”
“I might, at some point.”
“Let me know. Darling, not that jacket.” More resigned than appalled, he rose to take the one she’d yanked out of her closet, and after a quick study, drew out one with pale blue checks over cream. “Trust me.”
“I don’t know what I did before you were my fashion consultant,” she told him.
“I do, but I don’t like to think about it.”
“I know a dig when I hear one.” She sat to pull on her boots.
“Mmm.” He slid his hands in his pockets, and fingered a small gray button. One that had fallen off possibly the most unattractive, ill-cut suit he’d ever seen. One she’d been wearing the first time he’d laid eyes on her.
“I’ve a ’link conference shortly, then I’ll be in midtown most of the day.” He leaned over, laid his lips on hers. Left them there for a long, satisfying moment. “Take care of my cop.”
“That’s my plan. You know, I hear your friends say your cop is scary, mean, and relentless. What do you say about that?”
“Lieutenant, your friends say the same. Give my best to Peabody,” he added as he walked out.
“I’ll keep your best,” she called out, “and give her what’s left over.”
She heard him laugh, and decided that was every bit as good as coffee for setting her up for the day.
Setting up the appointment with Dr. Mira was her first task when she got to her office at Central. Peabody’s to-do list included confirming Luther Vanderlea had been in Madrid, and ascertaining the ex-husband’s whereabouts.
Eve fed the known data into her office computer and ran a check with IRCCA to search for any other like crimes.
The number of sexual homicides involving mutilation didn’t surprise her. She’d been a cop too long. Even the number that involved damaging, destroying, or removing the victims’ eyes didn’t put a hitch in her stride.
She eliminated those where the perpetrator was in a cage, or in the ground, and spent her morning studying the unsolved or unconvicted.
Her ’link signaled a number of times—reporters on the scent. And these she easily ignored.
Letting accumulated data cook, she shifted back to the victim.
Who was Elisa Maplewood?
Standard public education, she read. No college. One marriage, one divorce, one child. Professional mother’s stipend through first two years. Parents divorced when she was thirteen. Mother, also a domestic; stepfather, a laborer. Father in the Bronx, unemployed and with a sheet, Eve mused, and looked more closely at Abel Maplewood.
Petty larceny, drunk and disorderlies, receiving stolen property, assaults—spousal assault, illegal gambling, public lewdness.
“Well, well, Abel, you’re a little bit of a creep, aren’t you?”
No sexual assaults on record, but there was always a first time. Fathers raped their daughters. She knew that only too well. They held them down, beat them, broke their bones, and pushed themselves into their own flesh and blood.
She eased slowly away from the desk when she felt her heart begin to race. When she felt the memories, the nightmare of memories, begin to descend over her mind.
She went for water rather than coffee, drank it, slowly as well, standing at her single, narrow window.
She knew what Elisa had suffered during the rape—the pain, the terror that was more than pain—the degradation and shock. She knew, the way only another victim knew.
But she had to use that knowledge to
find the killer, to find justice, or she was no good. If she let those memories come down too hard, blur her focus, she was no good.
Time to get back into the field, she told herself. Back in the field and do the job.
“Dallas?”
She didn’t turn, and didn’t ask herself how long Peabody had been there, watching her find her control. “You confirm Vanderlea?”
“Yes, sir. He was in Madrid, as advertised. He’s on his way home now. Canceled his last day of business after his wife contacted him. He was at a breakfast meeting this morning—time difference, here and Europe—at seven Madrid time. Next to impossible for him to have zipped home, killed Maplewood, zipped back and made that meeting.”
“The ex?”
“Brent Hoyt. He’s clear. Seeing as he spent the night at the drunk tank on St. Thomas last night, he wasn’t in New York.”
“All right. Maplewood’s father—Abel—has a sheet. We’ll need to look at him. We’re heading back to the Vanderleas first.”
“Ah, there’s someone here who wants to speak to you.”
“Pertinent?”
“Well . . .”
“I don’t have time to chat.” Eve turned around. “We’ll check in with Morris at the morgue, then head uptown. I have to be back here to meet with Mira.”
“Yeah, well, she’s very insistent. Claims to have information. She looks normal.”
“As opposed to? If someone’s come in with information regarding the current investigation, why didn’t you just say so?”
“Because—” Peabody debated letting Eve find out for herself, or protecting her own skin. It was a short debate. “She says she’s a psychic.”
Eve stopped dead. “Oh, come on. Feed her to the liaison. You know better than to let the loonies in.”
“She’s registered and licensed. And she pulled the pal card.”
“I don’t have psychic pals. It’s a firm policy.”
“No, it’s the mutual friend deal.”
“Mavis has all kinds of looney friends. I don’t let them into my office.”
“Not Mavis. She claims to be a friend of Louise’s. Dr. Dimatto. The really normal, upstanding Dr. D. And she’s shook, Dallas. Her hands are trembling.”