by Robb, J. D.
Behind the wheel, Eve glanced in the mirror, gauged the traffic, then zipped out to join it. “What she wants is a whole shitload of money, plenty of status, admiration, and the freedom to screw people over with impunity.”
“All true. And still.”
“She was sixteen. Now she’s not, and she’s screwing people over—Ariel Byrd and Merit Caine are just the last of the line. So far. Our advantage there is she’d screw over anybody who threatens her end game, and that includes whoever killed Ariel. So, clearly, she doesn’t know.”
“That’s an advantage?”
“Because now we know—can be reasonably certain—that well’s dry. But we recovered the ’link.”
“The echo. Maybe just a glitch, but maybe a tracker, a recording device.”
“Maybe a tracker with a recorder. Text McNab to look for it. Somebody hears the argument,” Eve speculated, “the threat, and takes Ariel out so she can’t follow through. That means somebody close enough to Gwen to get to her ’link, and the key card—to copy it. And that individual had to be in reasonably close proximity to the crime scene when Gwen left that night.”
“I have a feeling we’re going to spend a lot of time cross-checking names.”
“I’ve got the list of Natural Order’s members in Manhattan—live and/or work. I whittled that to any with violent offenses, and with multiples. We’ll start with the shortest list, then expand as needed.”
“Maybe her parents know more about her than she thinks they do—or one of them does—and tapped her ’link to keep a closer watch. Killed Ariel to cover her.”
“Not impossible, but unlikely. They cut off their son without a second thought. Why would she be different? They’re true believers, right? Jesus, what mother gives her daughter a derivative of Whore?”
“A sick fuck of one,” Peabody decided.
“That, and a fanatic.”
Peabody glanced at her ’link. “McNab’s on it. Okay, maybe we track it to another member, also a victim of Natural Order who kept tabs on her. Somebody, maybe, who was in that Realignment bullshit when she was.”
“Possibly. Or someone connected to someone who went through that. There has to be a closer current connection. Sure, somebody could lay hands on her ’link if she’s as careless with it as she claims. But why?”
Eve punched through a light. “If Gwen gets outed, her parents cut her off financially. That’s highest probable outcome in that scenario. Would all that shit-ton of money go to Natural Order on their deaths?”
“If it does, that would be a reason to expose her, not cover—for a true believer anyway.”
“Or make sure she’s exposed—and charged with murder. Should’ve followed up as an anonymous informant on that. Unless they didn’t know her prints and DNA weren’t on file.”
“Or know her so well they were sure she’d go back and find the body?”
“Or intended to follow up—after making sure they, themselves, were covered. And she saved them the trouble.”
“Natural Order gets all the pie.”
“A lot of ifs here, a lot of maybes,” Eve considered. “And another. Maybe the Huffmans have another relative or close personal friend, even a long-term employee, who stands to rake in a pile if the daughter’s disinherited. Yeah, the cult gets the bulk, but it’s that shit-ton of money. Both kids out, both Huffmans healthy, you’ve got more time to ingratiate yourself and get more.”
“That’s an interesting maybe. The Huffmans are only in their sixties. That leaves decades to work on increasing a share of the shit-ton.”
“Or flip it back one more time,” Eve suggested as she threaded through a yellow light just before the pedestrian crosswalk charge. “Daughter exposed and disinherited, big, juicy pie for the cult. Somebody who’s killed once can do it again. The Huffmans have a tragic accident, a shocking murder-suicide, whatever. Then you don’t wait for the money to roll in.”
“If we push at that one, it could go all the way to the top.”
“Stanton Wilkey. We’ll need to have a conversation with him. See if you can find out where he is. I need a conversation with Mira. She may have some insight that’ll condense some of the ifs and maybes. And I want one with Billingsly,” she decided. “College Chad may remember somebody she palled around with. And he deserves to know he was set up, even if I can’t give him all the details.”
She pulled into the garage at Central.
“Let’s get started on the cross-checks,” she decided. “And see if Feeney can spare Callendar or any geek to take some of the list. I’ll see if Mira can squeeze me in.”
Peabody continued to work her PPC as they got into the elevator. “Wilkey’s heading and hosting a ten-day retreat—that’s for members in good standing—at his HQ in Connecticut. So he should be there. They’re only on day four.”
“Good. We’ll work some of the ifs and maybes, then pay him a visit.”
Eve pulled out her own PPC. “I’m sending you the search results. I’ll take the first twenty, you take the next twenty. See if EDD can split the rest. If not, we’ll keep going.”
When she switched to the glides, Peabody trotted with her.
“Any matches,” Eve continued, “they’re flagged for interview. Set up a broad-based search for any stories on Wilkey—you’re good at that. I’ll do a deep run, but we’ll see what’s in the gossip and society areas.”
And, Eve thought, she’d contact Nadine Furst. If the hotshot reporter didn’t have some details on Wilkey, she’d dig them up. And fast.
As she swung into Homicide, Jenkinson called out, “Yo, LT.”
Instinctively, she glanced toward him, then slapped her hand over her eyes. “Jesus Christ!”
The tie, from knot to tail, showcased a bug-eyed, pee-yellow-beaked, wildly pink flamingo.
“Can’t blame me for this one. My wife gave it to me.”
“You’ve infected her.”
“Anyways, Mira’s in your office.”
“Good. I need medical attention.”
She turned, blinked her abused eyes clear, then walked to her office.
Mira stood by Eve’s desk with a memo cube in her hand.
She wore pink, thankfully not flamingo pink, but a pale, sort of dreamy hue. The suit looked soft and springy, the heels—tiny checkerboards of pink and cream—looked painfully uncomfortable.
The cream-colored purse looked big enough to hold a potted plant.
Mira smiled, replaced the cube in her bag.
“I was just leaving you a memo. I’ve been reading your reports and notes. I find the case fascinating, and hoped to catch you in. Do you have a few minutes now?”
“I was going to contact your office, see if you could fit me in for a consult this morning.”
“This is perfect then. I had some outside appointments, and my first in-house needed to reschedule. I’ve got a block free right now.”
“Take the desk chair.”
Since Mira knew the discomfort of the single visitor’s chair, she didn’t argue. She set her bag aside, sat, crossed her excellent legs.
“Let me fill you in on this morning. You want tea?”
“That would be lovely.”
Eve programmed the flowery tea Mira liked, and black coffee for herself.
As Eve ran through the interviews, Mira sipped her tea. Occasionally she glanced at the board with those soft blue eyes.
“I’ve met Merit Caine’s parents.” Mira brushed back a wave of her rich brown hair, currently sun-shot courtesy of Trina. “Friends of friends, that sort of thing. I know they’re both enormously proud of their children. I haven’t had any contact with the Huffmans, but from your reports, and what you’ve told me here, I agree with your conclusion. True believers.
“They’re medical professionals, educated scientists, but have chosen to discard science in favor of a fanatical, systemic bigotry. So much so they would subject their own teenage daughter to what is nothing less than torture. This, and being raised on those tene
ts, forced to hide or deny her own sexual identity, certainly helped mold her into what she is today.”
“What is she today?”
“A malignant narcissist with sociopathic tendencies. A sexual predator—not a violent one, but an opportunistic one. She doesn’t form or forge genuine relationships, she manipulates those who can further her needs and ambitions. They don’t matter to her beyond that use. She doesn’t love, isn’t capable.”
“Could she kill?” Eve asked, and Mira smiled, sipped her tea.
“Oh yes, absolutely.”
11
Eve rose from where she’d eased a hip on the corner of her desk. “Could she have killed Ariel Byrd?”
“She’s more capable of murder than most,” Mira began. “On impulse, in the moment, in temper. Physical violence wouldn’t be her initial impulse or choice. It’s messy—and she would worry about being hurt herself. But in an instant or moment of rage, or fear of exposure, yes, she could.”
Eve thought of the moment with the empty glass. Gwen, ready to throw it at her face. But one word of warning, possible repercussions, and she’d thrown it against the wall.
“However,” Mira went on, “she calculates. She’s had to, all of her life. Would she have killed, then left evidence of her presence behind? Highly, very highly, doubtful.”
“Yeah, well, I circled around to that same conclusion. If she’d followed the victim upstairs, killed her in that moment of rage, she’d have started thinking. And covering. She’d have taken the vic’s ’link, the sheets, the glasses. Wiped the place down. Or contacted somebody she could pay to do it.”
“Agreed. She could have, as you speculated before, contacted someone to solve this problem for her—pay Byrd off, threaten her, or, yes, eliminate her. That would have to have been someone she had power over.”
“Her parents are Natural Order hierarchy.”
“Yes.” Coolly, Mira studied the board. “And she would absolutely be capable of using that lever. She has no friends, would trust no one without having power over them.”
“McNab’s working on her damaged ’link. But she claimed to be glad we had it because we’d see she hadn’t contacted anyone.”
“Possibly another lie—they’re instinct for her. But just as possibly true. Her returning the next morning fits her profile. She would manipulate her lover—whom she would soon discard—and if her lover still resisted, she’d simply steal the ’link, which she believed was the only way to expose their affair.
“She’s a liar by nature, but this is truth: She’s desperate for you to keep this information from her parents.”
Studying the board, Eve nodded. “I believe that, no question. She gave us all the information this morning without tagging a lawyer. She can’t afford to hire another lawyer, to have someone else see the evidence.”
“Yes. She believed she had power over Merit Caine, and learned it only went so far. She can’t put her fate into another’s hands. I will say that if she’d succeeded with Merit Caine, met the terms of the trust—or manages to do so with someone else—she might consider finding a way to eliminate her parents. She’s capable of that sort of calculation. The money from the trust wouldn’t be enough for her after she claimed it. Nothing will ever be enough.”
Mira sighed into her tea. “Some of this is simply her nature, but that’s been enhanced, refined by the need to pay them back, those parents, for what they put her through. And their money is a tangible way to punish them.”
“It’s going to come out—who she is. She’s deluding herself right now that her parents won’t find out, and I’m using that. She’ll never get what she wants.”
“No, she won’t. Her promiscuity will ruin her, and her promiscuity is yet another way she’s striking back at her parents. Without intensive therapy she’ll never be happy or fulfilled. Regardless, I believe whatever part she played in Ariel Byrd’s death was innocent—so far as innocence goes.”
“Because someone has power over her, and she’s not aware of it.” Eve only nodded as she thought the same. “Her ’link echo.”
“I leave that to those who know more about tech and electronics than I, but it’s a sound theory. Natural Order has power over her, as she must remain in good standing with them, through her parents, to reach her goals. Wilkey is another malignant narcissist, and one with a messiah complex. A charismatic bigot who draws in his followers with words of harmony, peace, personal success, and contentment if they adhere to his vision of what is natural, what is order. And reject what he sees as unnatural and chaos. And often bastardizes scripture to his own ends.”
Mira set her empty cup aside. “He turns a blind eye and occasionally disavows any in his membership who commit violence. That, as is what he preaches, is—I like that word you often use—bollocks. Complete bollocks.”
“I’m going to try to have a conversation with him today.”
Mira took a moment to consider. “He will, if you manage to have that conversation, be respectful. He’s a careful man. But he will not respect your authority. In fact, it will offend him. You’re a woman, therefore less by nature and biology and the grand plan. He may speak with you out of curiosity.”
“You know a lot about him.”
“I considered doing my dissertation on cults, with Natural Order highlighted. I decided on serial killers. I’ll add that if you’re right about the technology on Gwen Huffman’s ’link, whoever tracked or watched her already knew her secret, and has a reason to continue to keep it. Or killed to gain even more power over her.”
“Either way, it goes back to money.”
“Greed and power. Classic motives.” As she spoke, Mira ran the thin gold chain around her neck through her fingers.
“Though your killer is a planner, he’s disorganized. He watched and waited, but then struck in an impulsive and risky manner. Evidence indicates he sealed up before entering, but if he brought a weapon, why not use it?”
“The music was on, sure, and if he had a recorder on Gwen’s ’link, he heard Ariel say she was going to work. He heard Gwen leave. But,” Eve added, “that’s no guarantee she’d be in the studio. She could’ve come down after Gwen left. Or she could’ve been facing the stairs instead of away, seen him come in, picked up a weapon of her own.”
“Exactly so. Smarter, by far, to watch and wait near the building until the lights go out. Wait until he could be reasonably sure the victim had gone back to bed. Strike then.”
“Smarter still to make it look like a break-in.”
Pacing, Eve put herself into the killer’s place.
“You’ve got the key, you’ve used it before—how could you resist?—so you know the locks are crap. Grab some art, some tools, mess the place up. Unless you want fingers pointing at Gwen, and if that’s the thing, why didn’t you place an anonymous call and implicate her?”
“Disorganized, impulsive.” Mira rose. “I have to get to my office. I’d like to know your impressions if you do speak with Wilkey.”
“I’ll copy you on my report. I appreciate the time.”
“I hope it helped. I admit, I’m more fascinated than ever.”
Alone, Eve started the cross-match, adding Mira’s insights to her notes as it ran.
Then she contacted Chad Billingsly.
He looked exactly like his ID shot—not always the case. Young, attractive, stylishly rumpled dark blond hair, wide-set brown eyes.
He also looked baffled when she identified herself and asked about Gwen Huffman.
“Ah, yeah, we were engaged, briefly, a few years ago. A lifetime ago.” He tried a hesitant smile. “What, did she kill somebody?”
“Why would you ask?”
“Lieutenant Eve Dallas. I read the book, saw the vid.”
“Ms. Huffman is, at this time, a material witness in an ongoing investigation. Your name came up in connection with her.”
“Really. Weird. I haven’t seen Gwen in years. Four, I guess. Maybe five. I’ve closed that door, you know?”
“If you could open it again, tell me the names of any of her particular friends, or enemies during the time you knew her.”
“Man.” He shoved his fingers through his hair. “She didn’t really have what we called Trip Bs—Best Bosom Buds. I guess she was pretty popular, but it was mostly surface when you look back on it. I mean, she was beautiful and stylish and pretty much had unlimited funds, so she’s going to get invited to parties and all that. But she didn’t belong to any clubs or groups, hang with anybody all that much.”
“Except you?”
“Yeah, well.” He smiled a little, and dimples popped into his cheeks. “For a while.”
“During the course of my investigation your engagement to Ms. Huffman and the circumstances of its termination came up.”
“Well, shit. You never close the door hard enough. Look, Lieutenant, that was a long time ago.”
“Understood. It would be helpful if you could give me your whereabouts on Monday evening, from nine to midnight.”
His eyes widened in alarm. “Is Gwen okay? Did somebody try to hurt her?”
“She’s fine, Mr. Billingsly. I’m just checking off boxes. Routine.”
“Okay, Jesus. I can tell you where I was Monday. I was working on my final project for the term. Grad school, engineering. Six of us have a group house, and we’re all humping it this last couple weeks. We ordered pizza from Lorenzo’s—I don’t remember when it got there. But four of us were at home all night. Two of us came in from the science lab about nine, I think, and scarfed up whatever was left.
“My girl and I—we share a room in the house—knocked off about one, one-thirty, and went to bed. I can give you the names.”
“I’ll let you know if that becomes necessary. Mr. Billingsly, I feel you deserve to know that the circumstances of your breakup with Ms. Huffman were false.”