Salvation in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “Pipe down,” the woman ordered, and they did, instantly. The crashing noises continued, but at whispers.

  “Mrs. Inez?”

  “Yes?”

  “We’d like to speak to your husband.”

  “So would I, but he’s stuck in New Jersey, there’s a jam at the tunnel. He’ll be lucky to get home in under two hours. What is it?”

  Eve took out her badge.

  “Oh, Joe said the police were here last night. Something about one of the tenants being a witness in a hit-and-run.”

  “Is that what your son told you?”

  “Actually, Joe filled me in.” Awareness came into her eyes. “And that wasn’t entirely accurate. What is this about?”

  “We’re investigating an old connection of your husband’s. Do you know Lino Martinez?”

  “No, but I know the name. I know Joe was in the Soldados, and I know he did time. I know he had trouble, and he pulled himself out of it.” She gripped the doorknob, eased the door closed a few more inches, as if to shield the children behind her. “He hasn’t had anything to do with any of that business for years. He’s a good man. A family man with a decent job. He works hard. Lino Martinez and the Soldados were another life.”

  “Tell him we were here, Mrs. Inez, and that we’ve located Lino Martinez. We’re going to need to follow up with your husband.”

  “I’ll tell him, but I’m telling you he doesn’t know anything about Lino Martinez, not anymore.”

  She closed the door, and Eve heard the locks snick impatiently.

  “She’s pissed he lied to her,” Peabody commented.

  “Yeah. Stupid move on his part. It tells me he’s hiding something from his wife. Something from now, something from then? Either way, something. I’m going to drop you at the subway and work from home. Keep on those John Does. I think I’ll comb through those old case files, see if something swims up from the deep.”

  “I know what you said back there to López is right. We’ve got to do the job no matter what a creep Lino was. But when you know some of the shit he pulled, and the shit we think he pulled, it’s hard to get worked up because somebody ended him.”

  “Maybe if somebody had gotten worked up a long time ago, he wouldn’t have been able to pull so much shit, his mother wouldn’t be crying tonight, and somebody who strikes me as an especially good man wouldn’t be honor-bound, or faith-bound, to protect a murderer.”

  Peabody sighed. “You’ve got a point. But I like it better when the bad guys are just the bad guys.”

  “There’s always plenty of them to go around.”

  18

  SHE NEEDED THINKING TIME. CLOSED IN WITH the case time where she could put the pieces of everything she knew, didn’t know, everything that had been said, left unsaid together with people, events, evidence, and speculation, and see what kinds of pictures formed.

  She needed to take a good hard look at the victims in the two bombings, and their families, their connections. She needed to consider the blackmail angle, which she already knew would be a deep and sticky well. If López wouldn’t tell her the name of a murderer, he sure as hell wasn’t going to share the names of people who’d confessed blackmail-able transgressions to him.

  She didn’t buy murder for blackmail in Lino’s case, but she couldn’t discount it as possible. Or connected.

  How had Lino collected the money? she wondered as she drove home. Where had he kept the funds, or had he just pissed it away as it came in? Expensive hotel rooms and lavish meals, gaudy jewelry for his bed partner.

  Not enough, she thought. A few thousand here and there? What was the point in risking exposure for a fancy suite and a bottle of champagne?

  Showing off to the old girlfriend? Stuben said Penny Soto had been his weak spot. So . . . It could be that simple. Wanting to be rich, important, and having his woman see him as both.

  Or as simple as needing the rush, of knowing you were pulling a fast one. Reminding yourself who you were while you were pretending to be another. Like a hobby.

  Something else to think about.

  She drove through the gates, then slowed down. There were flowers where she was damn sure there hadn’t been flowers that morning. Tulips—she was pretty sure—and daffodils. She liked daffodils because they were so bright and silly. Now there were rivers of both where there hadn’t been so much as a drop ten hours earlier.

  How did that happen?

  In any case it was . . . well, it was pretty, and added a splash to the hazy green of the trees.

  She continued on, stopped and parked. And there were three enormous red pots literally engorged with petunias. White petunias—her wedding flower. Sentimental slob, she thought even as she went gooey herself. Simple pleasure warred against the ugly tension she’d been fighting to ignore since her interview with Penny Soto.

  She walked in to see Galahad perched like a pudgy gargoyle on the newel post—new spot for him—and Summerset hovering, as usual, in the foyer.

  “I assume the city has been cleared of all crime as you’re only an hour late and appear to be unbloodied.”

  “Yeah, we’re renaming it Utopia.” She gave Galahad a quick rub as she started upstairs. “Next stage is to get rid of all the assholes. You should get a head start and pack your bags.” She paused briefly. “Did Roarke talk to Sinead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  She went directly to the bedroom. Roarke was probably home, she thought—Summerset would’ve said if he wasn’t. And he was probably in his office, so she should’ve gone there, connected with him.

  But she wasn’t ready, just not ready for the connection. That war continued, beefing up now that she’d made it home. Where she knew she was safe, where she knew she could let go, just a little. Home, where she could acknowledge her belly was raw, the back of her neck tight knots of stress.

  She laid back, closed her eyes. When she felt the thump beside her, Eve reached out, let her arm curl around the cat.

  Stupid, she thought, it was stupid to feel sick, to have to fight against being sick. To feel anything but suspicion and disgust for a woman like Penny Soto.

  She didn’t realize Roarke had come into the room until his hand brushed her cheek. He moved so quietly, she thought, barely stirred the air if he didn’t choose. No wonder he’d been such a successful thief.

  “What hurts?” he asked her.

  “Nothing. Nothing really.” But she turned to him, turned into him when he lay beside her. And pressed her face into his shoulder. “I needed to be home. I needed to be home first. I was right about that. But I thought I needed to be alone, just be alone until I got level. I was wrong. Can we just stay here awhile?”

  “My favorite place.”

  “Tell me stuff. Stuff you did today. I don’t care if I don’t understand it.”

  “I had a ’link conference here shortly after you left this morning regarding some R&D at Euroco, one of my arms in Europe that deals primarily with transportation. We have a very interesting sea-road-air personal sports vehicle coming out early next year. I had meetings in midtown, but Sinead called from Ireland before I left. It was nice to hear from her. They’ve acquired a new puppy and named it Mac, who she claims is more trouble than triplet toddlers. She sounds madly in love with him.”

  She listened to his voice, more than the words. Something about a meeting with team leaders on a project called Optimum, and a holoconference dealing with his Olympus Resort, a lunch session with key members of one of his interests in Bejing. A merger, an acquisition, conceptual drawings.

  How did he keep it all straight?

  “You did all that, and still had time to get petunias?”

  His hand trailed up and down her back, up and down. “Did you like them?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I liked them.”

  “It’s been nearly two years since we were married.” He kissed the top of her head, then turned his to rest his cheek there. “And with Louise and Charles about to have their wedding
here, it made me think of the petunias. How the simple—a flower, a few minutes to talk to a relation—makes the complicated worthwhile.”

  “Is that why we have tulips and daffodils? They are tulips, right?”

  “They are. It’s good to be reminded that things come around again, fresh and new. And some things remain, steady and solid. The call from Sinead brought both back to me. Are you ready to tell me what’s the matter?”

  “Sometimes things come around again that are old and hard.” She sat up, shoved at her hair. “I brought Penny Soto in for questioning today. Actually, I baited her into taking a pop at me so I could charge her with assault and resisting.”

  He took her chin, tracing his thumb in its dent as he turned her face right and left. “You don’t appear to be popped.”

  “The assault was mostly technical. She was Lino’s main lay when they were teenagers. Works in the bodega right next to the church, the bodega he frequented, pretty much daily.”

  “So they reconnected.”

  “She was the one who knew him,” she said, remembering Roarke’s words from the morning. “The one he needed to tell. Yeah, they reconnected, and in the biblical sense—according to her. I buy that. You’d have to buy that. So she knew who he was, and some of what he was up to—maybe all, but I couldn’t get that out of her. Yet.

  “She claims he blackmailed some of the people who came in to confess. Plays, but I can’t quite figure it all.”

  “Hobby. More,” Roarke continued, “habit. The masquerade didn’t change who and what he was under it, and what was under it would need the hit. The buzz.”

  “Yeah, I circled around that. It doesn’t feel like motive. I know, tried and true,” she said before he could disagree, “I’ll get to why I don’t think it’s going to weigh in, or not much.”

  First she wanted to get the rest out, get it off her chest. “The thing is . . . Once I get Soto in the box, putting some pressure on, pissing her off, it comes out of her that her father . . .”

  “Ah.” He didn’t need the rest, didn’t need it for his stomach to tighten.

  “She’s snapping and snarling it at me, how her old man started on her when she was about twelve, how her useless mother was a junkie, how he beat her and molested her for two years before she joined the Soldados. They were her way out, the escape hatch. And there’s a part of me that gets it, that feels for her, that’s trying not to look at her and see me. To see . . .”

  She pressed a hand to her belly, used the pressure to finish it. “Because when she was fourteen, after she’d joined the Soldados, her father was stabbed to death—hacked to bloody death. It went down as a bad illegals deal, since that was his business. But I know, I know when I’m looking at her, and seeing myself, that she had the knife in her hand. That she rammed it in him, again and again. Probably her and Lino together—first kill, lovers’ bond. And no matter what I know, part of me’s saying you did the same as she did. How can you blame her? You did the same.”

  “No, you didn’t. No, Eve,” he said before she could speak, “you didn’t do the same. I don’t have to hear the rest to know it. To know that while fourteen is still a child, it’s six years and a world beyond what you were. And you were in prison, not able to get out as she was, and as she did. No escape hatch for you, no friends, no family, not of any kind. She did it for revenge, not for survival.”

  She rose to go to the bag she’d dropped on the way to the bed, and took out a photo. She laid it on the bed. “I see him when I look at that. I see my father and what I did.”

  He picked it up, studied the harsh crime scene still of the man sprawled on a filthy, littered floor, swimming in his own blood. “No child did this,” Roarke said. “Even a terrified, desperate child couldn’t, not in self-defense, not alone.”

  She let out a breath. It probably wasn’t the time to mention he’d make a good cop. “No, there were two attackers. They established that as the wounds were from two different knives. Different blade types and sizes, different force, different angles. I expect one of them lured him there, and the other laid in wait. They came at him from the front and from behind. The sexual mutilation was post-mortem. She probably did that. But—”

  “It amazes me,” he said quietly. “It astounds me that you can look at this kind of thing, every day. You can look every day and continue to care, every day. Don’t stand there and tell me you did the same. Don’t stand there and tell me you see yourself in her.”

  He let the photo fall to the bed as he rose. “She wears the tattoo?”

  “Yeah.”

  “With a kill mark.”

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s proud of it, proud she’s killed. Tell me, Eve, can you tell me you have pride in any of the lives you’ve had to take?”

  She shook her head. “It made me sick—no, made me want to be sick. And I couldn’t be. Wouldn’t be. I couldn’t think about it, not really think about it, until I got home. I could think about it here, in case I fell apart. I know we’re not the same. I know it. But there’s a parallel.”

  “As there is between me and your victim.” He laid his hands on her shoulders. “And yet here we are, you and me. Here we are because somewhere along the line, those parallels verged, and took markedly different paths.”

  She turned, picked up the photo to put it back in her bag. She’d look again. She would look again. “Two years ago—a little more—I wouldn’t have had anyone to say these things to. Even if I’d remembered what happened when I was eight, and before. Nobody, not even Mavis, and I can tell her anything. But I couldn’t show her a photo like that, I couldn’t ask her to look at that, and see what I see. I don’t know how long I could’ve kept looking, kept caring, if I didn’t have someone to come home to who’d look with me when I needed it.”

  She sat on the bed again, sighed. “Jesus, it’s been a day. Penny knows more than she’s saying, and she’s hard. She’s got layers and layers of hard on her, slapped right over mean and possibly psychotic. I have to find the way through.”

  “Do you think she killed him? Martinez?”

  “No, but I think she made sure she was alibied tight because she knew it was going down. I think the asshole loved her, and she loves no one. Maybe she used that against him. I need to think. I saw López, and Mira hit the target there. Lino’s killer confessed to his priest, and there’s nothing I can do. I look at this guy, Roarke, at López and I see another victim.”

  “Do you think the killer will go after him?”

  “I don’t know. I put him under surveillance. I could bring him in, legally, I could bring him in and wind him up for a few days, until the lawyers cut through it. But I need to leave him out, need to hope the killer will go back to him. And I look at him and I see he’s sick in his heart. I know he’s got this fist pounding on his conscience. There’s nothing I can do,” she repeated. “Just like there’s nothing López can do. We’re stuck, both of us, stuck with our duty.”

  She flopped back on the bed. “I need to clear my head, come at it again. It winds all over hell and back. Flores—why him, and where did his path cross with Lino? Where the hell is Chávez? Dead? Hiding? What was Lino waiting for? Was he killed for that, or does it go back to the past? The bombings? He did both of them, I’m damn well sure, so—”

  “You’re losing me.”

  She pushed up again. “Sorry. I need to lay it out, reorganize, look at the time lines, change up my board. I need to do runs on a whole shitload of people and look at all that from various angles.”

  “Then we’d best get started.” He took her hand, pulled her to her feet.

  “Thanks.”

  “Well, I owe you one for the call from Sinead.”

  “Huh?”

  “What do you take me for?” he asked, looping his arm around her waist. “My aunt just happens to get in touch the same morning I’m a bit off thinking about my connections in Ireland, and what—who—I’ve lost there? It’s nice to be looked after.”

  “So
that would be looking after as opposed to poking in and interfering? It’s hard to tell the difference.”

  “It is, isn’t it? But we’ll muddle through it.”

  As they passed, one of the house screens came on. “Your guests are coming through the gate,” Summerset announced.

  “What guests?” Eve demanded

  “Ah . . .” Roarke raked his fingers through his hair. “Yes. A moment.” He dismissed Summerset. “I’m sorry, it slipped my mind. I can go down, take care of it. I’ll simply tell them you’re still at work, which you will be.”

  “Who? Damn it, why can’t people stay home? Why do they always want to be in somebody else’s?”

  “It’s Ariel Greenfeld, Eve, and Erik Pastor.”

  “Ariel.” She had a flash of the pretty brunette who’d been held and tortured by a madman for days. And stayed sane, strong and smart.

  “She got in touch today, and asked if they could come by this evening. I can take it, move them along.”

  “No.” Reaching down, she took Roarke’s hand. “It’s like the call from your aunt. It’s good to remember what matters. Ariel matters. So,” she continued as they moved toward the steps, “she and Erik the neighbor are making it work.”

  “Engaged, getting married in the fall.”

  “Jesus, it’s like a virus, this marriage thing. I could’ve met her at Central—or elsewhere,” she added. “Probably should have. You can’t have victims and wits and all manner of God knows dropping in here.”

  “I think this would be a clear exception. She did work for me, after all.”

  “Yeah, but . . . did? She quit? Goddamn that sick-ass Lowell. Did he take that away from her? She loved to bake, and your place downtown had to be a great gig.”

  “She’s baking. And you’ll see for yourself she’s in a good place. She’s happy and doing very well.”

  Eve’s eyebrows drew together. “You seem to know a lot about it.”

  “I know a lot about so many things.” He gave her hand a squeeze. As they started down the steps, Eve heard the voices from the parlor. She heard Ariel laugh.