by J. D. Robb
“No. The investigation is ongoing, and we’re using all resources.”
“It was too much to hope for.” She looked around, distractedly. “I should make coffee, or tea. Or something.”
“Don’t trouble yourself.” Peabody spoke gently, a tone Eve never quite managed with the same ease. “If you’d like something, I’d be happy to get it for you.”
“No. Thank you, no. Vonnie—she’s sleeping again. She and Zanna. I don’t know if she understands, really understands, her mother’s not coming back. She cried. Cried and cried. We all did. She fell asleep, worn out from it, and I put her back to bed. Zanna, too. I put them together, so neither of them would wake alone.”
“She’ll need counseling, Mrs. Vanderlea.”
“Yes.” Deann nodded at Peabody. “I’ve already made calls. I’m making arrangements. I want, I need . . . God. Luther and I, we want to make arrangements for Elisa. For her memorial. I’m not sure who I need to speak with about it, or how soon, or . . . I need to keep doing.” A shudder ran through her. “I’m all right as long as I keep doing something.”
“We’ll put someone in touch with you,” Eve told her.
“Good. I’ve called our lawyers as well, to arrange for emergency custody of Vonnie. To start proceedings to make it permanent as soon as we can. She’s not going to be ripped away from the only home she’s ever known. I’ve spoken with Elisa’s parents—well, her mother and stepfather. Her mother—”
Her voice broke again, and she shook her head fiercely as if to deny herself the luxury. “They’re coming here later today, so we can sit down and talk about what’s best. Somehow.”
“Elisa would be grateful that you’re taking care of her daughter. She’d be grateful you’re helping us do our job.”
“Yes.” Deann squared her shoulders at Eve’s words. “I hope so.”
“What do you know about Abel Maplewood? Elisa’s father.”
“A difficult man, in my opinion. But he and Elisa managed to maintain a good relationship. I haven’t been able to reach him to tell him. He’s out West somewhere. Omaha, Idaho, Utah . . . I’m so scattered.” She dragged both hands through her hair. “He’s been out there a week or so, visiting his brother, I think. Probably sponging off him, to be frank. Elisa was always slipping him money. Her mother’s going to try to reach him today.”
“It would help if we had his whereabouts. Just routine.”
“I’ll see you get the information. And I know you need to look in her rooms. I put the girls in Zanna’s room, so they won’t be disturbed.” She started to rise, but Peabody put a hand to her shoulder.
“Why don’t you stay here, try to rest. We know where her rooms are.”
They left her there. “Record on, Peabody.”
They stepped into a small, cheerful sitting room done in bold colors. There were a few toys scattered around, and a little basket with a red cushion Eve assumed was a kind of bed for the dog.
She moved through it, and into Elisa’s bedroom. “Make a note to have EDD check out her ’links, her data units.” She went to the dresser first, began to go through drawers.
She already had a sense of a settled, content, hardworking woman. The search of her quarters did nothing to change that. There were a number of framed photographs, most of the child. There were flowers and the little trinkets women enjoyed having around.
Her wardrobe was casual, with two good suits, two pair of good shoes. There was nothing in it that spoke of a man.
She checked the bedside ’link herself, pulled up the last incoming. It was from her mother, a chatty, affectionate conversation that included the child toward the end when the little girl ran into the room and babbled away at her gamma.
“Dallas, I think I found something.” Peabody held up another basket. This was in the cupboard under the sitting room entertainment screen.
“What is it?”
“A craft basket. Handwork stuff. She did crafts.” Peabody held up a skein of ribbon. It wasn’t red, but it was the same basic type as what had killed her.
Eve stepped forward to take it just as a little girl came into the sitting room. She was tiny, with curly hair so blonde it was nearly white spilling around a pretty, chubby-cheeked face. She was knuckling her eyes.
“That’s my mommy’s. You’re not supposed to touch Mommy’s sewing basket, ’less she says.”
“Ah . . .”
“I’ll take her,” Peabody murmured and, handing off the basket to Eve, crouched down to child level. “Hi, are you Vonnie?”
The child hunched her shoulders. “Not supposed to speak to strangers.”
“That’s right, but it’s okay to talk to the police, isn’t it?” Peabody took out her badge, gave it to the little girl. “Did your mommy tell you about the police?”
“They help people and catch bad guys.”
“That’s right. I’m Detective Peabody, and this is Lieutenant Dallas.”
“Whatsa Loonat?”
“It’s a job,” Peabody said without missing a beat. “It means she’s a policeman who catches lots of bad guys.”
“Okay. I can’t find my mommy. Aunt Deann’s sleeping. Can you find my mommy?”
Peabody’s eyes met Eve’s over the little girl’s head. “Why don’t we go find your aunt Deann?” Peabody suggested.
“She’s sleeping.” Her voice spiked, her lips began to tremble. “She said a bad man hurt my mommy and she can’t come home. I want my mommy to come home now.”
“Vonnie—”
But she shook Peabody off, planted herself in front of Eve. “Did a bad man hurt my mommy?”
“You should come with me now, Vonnie.”
“I want her to say.” She pointed her little finger at Eve, poked out her bottom lip. “She’s the Loonat.”
Jesus, Eve thought. Oh, Jesus. She jerked her head, signaling Peabody to get Deann, then she sucked it in, crouched as Peabody had. “Yes. I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Tears were gathering in big eyes the color of bluebells. “Did she go to the doctor?”
Eve thought of Morris, the steel table, the cold, clear lights of the morgue. “Not exactly.”
“Doctors make you better. She should go to the doctor. If she can’t come home, can you take me to her?”
“I can’t. She’s . . . she’s in a place we can’t go. All I can do is find the person who hurt her, so he can be punished.”
“He’ll have to stay in his room?”
“Yeah, so he can’t ever hurt anyone else.”
“Then she can come home?”
Eve looked over, helpless and weak with relief when Deann rushed in. “Vonnie. Come with me, baby.”
“I want Mommy.”
“I know, baby. I know.” Deann gathered her up, snuggled her in as the child began to weep on her shoulder. “I fell asleep. I’m sorry.”
“I know it’s hard. I know it’s bad timing all around. I need to ask you where she got the supplies in this basket.”
“Her sewing basket? Here and there. She loved to make things. I went with her a few times. She tried to teach me, but I was hopeless. There was a place on Third—ah, God—um, Sew What. And a big supply house downtown, near Union Square. Total Crafts, I think. And the one at the Sky Mall. I’m sorry.”
She rocked back and forth on her heels, stroking Vonnie’s hair. “She’d go in to a shop if she was passing, rarely came out empty-handed.”
“Would you know where she bought this, specifically?” Eve held up the ribbon.
“No, I don’t.”
“I’m going to arrange for her data and communication equipment to be taken in. Would all her transactions and transmissions have been made and received by the ones in these rooms?”
“She might have called her mother, say, from one of the other ’links. But she did all her personal work on her own unit. I need to settle Vonnie down.”
“Go ahead.”
Eve studied the
ribbon. “It’s a good lead,” Peabody said.
“It’s a lead.” She put the ribbon in her evidence bag. “Let’s run it down.”
The main door of the penthouse opened as Eve walked back into the living area. The man who entered had a shock of gold hair, a pale, tired face. She saw Deann spring up from the couch where she was holding Vonnie and, with the child still in her arms, leap toward him.
“Luther. Oh, God, Luther.”
“Deann.” He enfolded both of them, dropped his head to his wife’s shoulder. “It’s not a mistake?”
She shook her head, and let go with the weeping Eve imagined she’d been holding in for hours.
“I’m sorry to intrude. I’m Lieutenant Dallas.”
He lifted his head. “Yes. Yes, I recognize you. Deann? Sweetheart, take Vonnie in the bedroom.” He kissed them both, and let them go.
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Vanderlea.”
“Luther. Please. What can I do? Is there something I should do?”
“It would help if you answered a few questions.”
“Yes. All right.” He looked in the direction his wife had gone. “I couldn’t get here sooner. It seemed to take forever to get home. Deann told me . . . I’m still not clear. Elisa—she went out to walk the dog, and she was . . . Deann said she was raped and murdered. Raped and murdered right over in the park.”
“Would she have told you if she was being bothered by anyone, if she was concerned about anything?”
“Yes.” He said it without hesitation. “If not me, certainly she would have told Deann. They were very close. We . . . We’re family.” He sat, let his head fall back.
“Were you and Ms. Maplewood close?”
“You’re asking me if Elisa and I had a sexual relationship. I wondered if you would, and told myself not to be insulted. I’m trying not to be. I don’t cheat on my wife, Lieutenant. I certainly wouldn’t take advantage of a very vulnerable woman in my employ, a woman I liked very much, a woman who worked very hard to give her child a good life.”
“I don’t ask to offend you. Why do you characterize Ms. Maplewood as vulnerable?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, dropped his hand. “She was a single parent who had been misused by her husband, who was dependent on me for her salary, for the roof over her head, come to that. Not that she couldn’t have found other employment. She knew how to work. But she might not have found a situation that allowed her child to grow up in a home like this, with a playmate, with people who loved her. Vonnie’s welfare was first for Elisa.”
“Was she threatened by her ex-husband?”
He smiled, humorlessly. “Not anymore. She was a strong woman, who’d put him where he belonged. In the past.”
“Do you know of anyone who’d want to hurt her?”
“Absolutely no one. That’s the God’s truth. I can’t resign myself, not fully, to the fact that anyone did. I know you have a job to do, but so do I. My wife needs me, the children need me. Can we do whatever else needs to be done later?”
“Yes. I want to take this.” She pulled out the roll of ribbon. “I can give you a receipt.”
“Not necessary.” He pushed to his feet, rubbed his hands over his face. “I’ve heard you’re good at your job.”
“I am good at it.”
“I’m depending on you.” He offered his hand. “We all are.”
They hit crafts stores, crisscrossing Manhattan on the way downtown. Eve had no idea there was so much involved in the making of so many things easily available ready-made. When she expressed the opinion, Peabody smiled and fingered some brightly colored thread sold in hanks.
“There’s a lot of satisfaction in making something yourself. Picking the colors, the materials, the pattern. Individualizing it, and seeing it come to life.”
“You say so.”
“A lot of craftsmen and artisans in my family. Goes with the whole Free-Ager philosophy. I’m pretty handy myself, but I don’t have a lot of time for it. I still have the tea cozy my grandmother helped me crochet when I was ten.”
“I don’t even know what that is.”
“What, the tea cozy or crocheting?”
“Either, and I find I have no interest in finding out.” She studied the shelves and displays, full of supplies and finished products. “A lot of the clerks we’ve talked to remember Maplewood. Don’t see a lot of men in these joints.”
“Needlework remains primarily the work and/or hobby of the female. Too bad. It can be very relaxing. My uncle Jonas knits up a storm and claims it’s one of the reasons he’s a healthy, vital one hundred and six. Or seven. Maybe it’s eight.”
Eve didn’t bother to respond but headed out of the shop. “Nobody, thus far, remembers any man bothering Elisa or any other customer for that matter. Nobody asking questions about her, loitering around. Same kind of ribbon. There has to be a connection.”
“He could’ve bought it anywhere, any time. He might’ve seen her in one of the stores, then gone back later to buy his own. You know, they have these craft fairs, too. He could’ve bumped into her at one of those. I bet she’d go to the fairs, maybe take the kids.”
“That’s a good line. Check it out with the Vanderleas.” She stood on the sidewalk, thumbs in front pockets, fingers tapping idly on her hips as people streamed or trudged around her. “Do that later. They need some space. We’re only a few blocks from the shelter. We’ll ask Louise about the witch.”
“Sensitives aren’t necessarily witches, just as witches aren’t necessarily sensitives. Hey, a glide-cart!”
“Wait, wait!” Eve pressed a hand to her temple, stared at the sky. “I’m getting a vision. It’s you stuffing a soy dog in your mouth.”
“I was going to go for the fruit kabob and perhaps a small, walkaway salad. But now you’ve put the damn dog in my head and I have to have it.”
“I knew that. Get me some fries, tube of Pepsi.”
“I knew that,” Peabody replied. But she was too happy with the idea she’d actually get lunch to complain about paying for it.
Chapter 4
It didn’t look like a refuge, Eve thought. It looked, from the outside at least, like a well-maintained, modest, multiresident building. Middle-income apartments, sans doorman. The casual observer wouldn’t note anything special about it, even if he bothered to look.
And that, Eve reminded herself, was precisely the point. The women and children who fled here didn’t want anyone to notice.
But if you were a cop, you’d probably note and approve of the first-rate security. Full-scan cams, cleverly disguised in the simple trims and moldings. Privacy screens activated at all windows.
If you were a cop and knew Roarke, you could be certain there were motion pads at every access, with top-of-the-line alarms. Entrée would require palm plate identification, keypad code, and/or clearance from inside. There would be twenty-four-hour security—probably human and droid—and you could bet your ass the entire place would lock down like a vault at any attempt to break in.
Not just a refuge, but a fortress.
Dochas, Gaelic for “hope,” was as safe—probably safer due to its anonymity—as the White House.
If she’d known such places existed, would she have fled to one instead of wandering the streets of Dallas, a child broken, traumatized, and lost?
No. Fear would have sent her running away from hope.
Even now, knowing better, she felt uneasy stepping up to the door. Alleys were easier, she thought, because you knew there were rats in the dark. You expected them.
But she reached up to ring the bell.
Before she could signal, the door opened.
Dr. Louise Dimatto, that blond bundle of energy, greeted them.
She wore a pale blue lab coat over a simple black shirt and trousers. Two tiny gold hoops glinted in her left ear, with a third in the right. There were no rings on her competent fingers, and a plain, serviceable wrist unit sat on her left hand.
Nothing abo
ut her screamed money, though she came from big green seas of it.
She was pretty as a strawberry parfait, classy as a crystal flute of champagne, and a born reformer who lived to fight in the trenches.
“About damn time.” She grabbed Eve’s hand and pulled her inside. “I was beginning to think I’d have to call nine-one-one to get you down here. Hi, Peabody. Boy, don’t you look great.”
Peabody beamed. “Thanks.” After considerable experimentation, she’d found what she liked to think of as her detective look with simple lines, interesting colors, and matching airsneaks or skids.
“We appreciate you making time,” Eve began.
“Time’s constantly being made. My goal is to make enough so there’s twenty-six hours per day. That should be just about right. How about a tour?”
“We need—”
“Come on.” She kept Eve’s hand trapped in hers. “Let me show off a little. Remodeling and rehab are finally complete, though Roarke’s given me carte blanche for additional decorating or equipment. The man is now my god.”
“Yeah, he likes that part.”
Louise laughed, and hooked her arms through Eve’s on one side and Peabody’s on the other. “I don’t have to tell you the security is flawless.”
“No security is flawless.”
“Don’t be a cop,” she complained and gave Eve a little hip check. “We have common rooms down here. Kitchen—and the food’s great—dining area, library, a playroom, and what we call the family room.”
Eve could already hear the chatter as Louise took them down a hallway, gesturing to rooms. Women and children chatter, Eve thought. The sort that always made her feel awkward and edgy.
It smelled like girls, too—mostly—though she caught sight of what she thought were a couple of young boys loping off toward what was likely the kitchen area.
There were scents of polish and flowers and what she thought might be hair products. Tones of lemon and vanilla and the hard-candy smell she always associated with groups of females.
There was a lot of color in the place as well as a lot of room. Cheerful color, comfortable furniture, spots for sitting alone, spots for conversation.
She saw immediately that the family room was the popular spot.