by J. D. Robb
"Right here." Peabody handed over another disc, neatly labeled.
"My office. We'll run them and see what we've got. I'm going to give Feeney a call," Eve continued as they headed out of the bullpen. "We're going to need the Electronic Detective Division on this."
"Captain Feeney's in Mexico, Lieutenant. Vacation?"
Eve stopped, scowled. "Shit, I forgot. He's got another week, doesn't he?"
"Just over that. In your lovely cliffside villa. To which your devoted aide has yet to be invited."
Eve lifted a brow. "You got a yen to see Mexico?"
"I've seen Mexico, Dallas, I've got a yen to let a hot-blooded caballero have his way with me."
Snorting, Eve unlocked her office door. "We wrap this case up in good time, Peabody, I'll see if I can arrange it." She tossed the discs on her already disordered desk, then shrugged out of her jacket. "We still need someone from EDD. See who they can spare who knows his stuff. I don't want some second-grade tinkerer."
Peabody got out her communicator to make the request while Eve settled behind her desk, slipped the disc of Brennen's communications into her unit.
"Engage," she ordered after remembering her password. "Playback."
There was only one call, an outgoing on the day before Brennen was murdered. He'd called his wife, talked to his children. And the simple, intimate domestic chatter of a man and the family he was planning to join made Eve unbearably sad.
"I have to contact the wife," Eve murmured. "Hell of a way to start the day. Best get it done now before we have a media leak. Give me ten minutes here, Peabody."
"Yes, sir. EDD is sending over a Detective McNab."
"Fine." When her door shut and she was alone, Eve took a long breath. And made the call.
When Peabody came back ten minutes later, Eve was drinking coffee while she stood staring out her skinny window. "Eileen Brennen's coming back to New York, bringing her kids. She insists on seeing him. She didn't fall apart. Sometimes it's worse when they don't crumble, when they hang on. When you can see in their eyes they're sure somehow you've made a mistake."
She rolled her shoulders, as if shrugging off a weight, then turned. "Let's see the security disc. We could catch a break."
Peabody unsealed the disc herself and engaged it. Seconds later both she and Eve were staring at the computer screen.
"What the hell is that?" Eve demanded.
"It's—I don't know." Peabody frowned at the figures moving over the screen. The voices were raised but solemn and in a foreign tongue. At the center was a man in black, robe over robe, with two young boys in white beside him. He held a silver goblet in his hand as he stood before an altar draped with black cloth and white flowers and candles. "A ritual? Is it a play?"
"It's a funeral," Eve murmured, studying the closed and gleaming casket beneath the raised platform. "A funeral Mass. I've been to one. It's a Catholic thing, I think. Computer, identify ceremony and language on disc."
Working…Ceremony is Catholic Requiem Mass or Mass for the Dead. Language is Latin. This section depicts offertory chant and ritual in which—
"That's enough. Where the hell did you get this disc, Peabody?''
"Straight out of the security room at the Luxury Towers, Dallas. It was coded, marked, and labeled."
"He switched them," Eve muttered. "The son of a bitch switched discs on us. He's still playing games. And he's damn good at it. Computer, stop run, copy disc." Shoving her hands in her pockets, Eve rocked back on her heels. "He's having fun with us, Peabody. I'm going to have to hurt him for that. Order a sweep of the security room, and arrange to confiscate all discs for the appropriate time period."
"All discs?"
"All discs, all floors, all levels. And I want the report from the uniforms who handled the door-to-doors on the Towers." She pocketed the copy her computer spat out. "And I'm going to see what the hell's keeping the initial sweeper report."
She reached for her 'link just as it beeped. "Dallas."
"You were quick, Lieutenant. I'm impressed."
Eve only had to blink to have Peabody ordering a transmission trace. Eve smiled thinly at the colors swimming across her screen. This time the music was a chorus of voices in a language she now recognized as Latin. "You did quite a job on Brennen. Looked like you enjoyed yourself."
"Oh, I did, believe me, I did. Tommy was quite a singer, you know. He certainly sang for me. Listen."
All at once the room was full of screams, inhuman, weeping screams that had ice skating up Eve's spine.
"Beautiful. He begged for his life, then he begged me to end it. I kept him alive for four hours giving him time to relive his past sins."
"Your style lacks subtlety, pal. And when I nail you, I'll have enough to keep you from pulling a mentally defective. I'll get you straight, and I'll push for a cage on Attica Two. The facilities there make on-planet cages look like country clubs."
"They caged the Baptist, but he knew the glory of Heaven."
Eve searched her threadbare memory of Bible stories. "He's the one who lost his head to a dancing girl, right? You willing to risk yours to a cop?"
"She was a harlot." He mumbled the words so that Eve had to lean close to hear. "Evil in a beautiful form. So many are. He withstood her, her temptation, and was martyred pure."
"Do you want to be martyred? To die for what you call your faith? I can help you with that. Just tell me where you are."
"You challenge me, Lieutenant, in ways I hadn't expected. A strong-minded woman is one of God's greatest pleasures. And you're named for Eve, the mother of mankind. If only your heart was pure, I could admire you."
"You can save the admiration."
"Eve was also weak in spirit and caused the loss of Paradise for her children."
"Yeah, and Adam was a wimp who couldn't take responsibility. Bible hour's over. Let's get on with it."
"I look forward to meeting you—though it can't be for a little while yet."
"Sooner than you think."
"Perhaps, perhaps. Meanwhile, another riddle. A race this time. The next sinner is still alive, still blissfully unaware of his punishment. By his words, and God's law, he will be condemned. Heed this. 'A faithful man will abound with blessings, but he who hastens to be rich will not go unpunished.' He's gone unpunished long enough."
"For what?"
"For a lying tongue. You have twenty-four hours to save a life, if God wills it. Your riddle: He's fair of face and once lived by his wits. Now those wits are dulled as like poor old Dicey Riley, he's taken to the sup. He lives where he works and works where he lives, and all the night serves others what he craves most. He traveled across the foam but closes himself in a place that reminds him of home. Unless you find him first, his luck runs out tomorrow morn. Better hurry."
Eve stared at the screen long after it went blank.
"Sorry, Dallas, no good on the trace. Maybe the e-detective can do something with it when he gets here."
"Who the hell is Dicey Riley?" Eve muttered. "What does he mean 'sup'? Like supper? Food maybe. Restaurants. Irish restaurants."
"I think that's an oxymoron."
"Huh?"
"Bad joke," Peabody offered with a sick smile. "To lighten the mood."
"Right." Eve dropped in her chair. "Computer, list name and locations for all Irish restaurants in the city. Hard copy." She swiveled in her chair. "Contact Tweeser—she was head sweeper on Brennen. Tell her I need something, anything. And have a uniform go over to the Towers and get those security discs. Let's move."
"Moving," Peabody agreed and headed out.
• • •
An hour later, Eve was pouring over the sweeper's report. There was little to nothing to study. "Bastard didn't leave so much as a nose hair to scoop up." She rubbed her eyes. She needed to go back to the scene, she decided, walk through it, try to visualize it all. All she could see was the blood, the gore, the waste.
She needed to clear her vision.
The Biblical
quote had come from Proverbs again. She could only assume that the intended victim wanted to be rich. And that, she decided, narrowed it down to every single sinning soul in New York City.
Revenge was the motive. Money for betrayal? she wondered. Someone connected to Brennen? She called up the lists Roarke had accessed and transmitted, scanned the names of Thomas Brennen's associates, friends.
No lovers, she mused. And Roarke would have found any if they'd existed. Thomas Brennen had been a faithful husband, and now his wife was a widow.
At the sharp rap on her doorjamb, she glanced up, frowned distractedly at the man grinning at her. Mid-twenties, she judged, with a pretty-boy face and a love of fashion.
He barely topped five-eight even in the neon yellow air boots. He wore denim above them, pants that bagged and a jacket that showed frayed cuffs. His hair was a bright new minted gold that flowed into a waist-length ponytail. He had half a dozen small, glinting gold hoops in his left earlobe.
"You took a wrong turn, pal. This is Homicide."
"And you'd be Dallas." His bright, eager grin pinched twin dimples into his cheeks. His eyes were a misty green. "I'd be McNab, with EDD."
She didn't groan. She wanted to, but suppressed it into a quiet sigh as she held out a hand. Good Christ was all she could think, as he took it with fingers twinkling with rings. "You're one of Feeney's."
"Joined his unit six months ago." He glanced around her dim, cramped office. "You guys in Homicide really got squeezed in the budget cuts. We got closets bigger than this in EDD."
He glanced over, then beamed a fresh smile as Peabody stepped up beside him. "Nothing like a woman in uniform."
"Peabody, McNab."
Peabody took a long, critical study, scanning glints and glitters. "This is the EDD dress code?"
"It's Saturday," McNab said easily. "I got the call at home, thought I'd swing in and see what's up. And we're a little loose over at EDD."
"Obviously." Peabody started to squeeze by him, narrowing her eyes when he grinned again.
"With three of us in there, we'll be standing in sin. But I'm game." He shifted enough to let her by, then followed, letting his gaze skim down to judge curves.
Not bad, thought McNab. Not bad at all.
When he lifted his gaze and encountered Eve's stony stare, he cleared his throat. He knew Eve Dallas's reputation. She didn't tolerate bullshit. "What can I do for you, Lieutenant?''
"I've got a homicide, Detective, and I may have another by this time tomorrow. I need a trace on communication. I need a location. I need to find out how the hell this prick is jamming our lines."
"Then I'm your man. Calls coming in on this unit?" At Eve's nod, he moved closer. "Mind if I take your chair, see what I can do?"
"Go ahead." She rose, moved aside for him. "Peabody, I've got to get over to the morgue this afternoon. Try to head off Mrs. Brennen, get a statement. We're going to split the restaurant list between us. We're looking for someone who works and lives on the premises, someone who emigrated into New York, and someone with a possible connection to Thomas Brennen. I've got a list of Brennen's nearest friends and associates. Narrow it down, and narrow it fast." She handed Peabody a hard copy.
"Yes, sir."
"And check close on anyone named Riley—or Dicey."
McNab stopped the under-the-breath humming that seemed to be the theme song of every electronics man Eve knew. "Dicey Riley?" he said and laughed.
"I miss the joke, McNab?"
"I don't know. 'Dicey Riley' is an Irish pub song."
"Pub?" Eve's eyes narrowed. "You Irish, McNab?"
She caught the slight flare of insult flicker over his pretty face. "I'm a Scotsman, Lieutenant. My grandfather was a Highlander."
"Good for him. What's the song mean—what's it about?"
"It's about a woman who drinks too much."
"Drinks? Not eats?"
"Drinks," he confirmed. "The Irish Virus."
"Shit. Well, half these are pubs anyway," Eve said as she looked down at her own list. "We'll run another check on Irish bars in the city."
"You'll need a twenty man task force to hit all the Irish pubs in New York," McNab said easily, then turned back to his work.
"You just worry about the trace," Eve ordered. "Peabody, run the names and locations for the bars. The uniform back yet with the discs from the Towers?"
"He's en route."
"Fine, have the bars broken down geographically. I'll take the south and west, you take north and east." Even as Peabody left, Eve turned to McNab. "I need something fast."
"It's not going to be fast." His boyish face was grim with purpose now. "I've already gone down a couple of layers. There's nothing. I'm running a scattershot trace on the last transmission that came through. It takes time, but it's the best way to trace through a jam."
"Make it take less time," she snapped. "And contact me as soon as you break through."
He rolled his eyes behind her back as she strode out. "Women," he muttered. "Always wanting a miracle."
• • •
Eve hit a dozen bars as she worked her way down to the medical examiner's building. She found two bar owners and three crew who lived above or behind the business. As she pulled her unit into a third-level parking space at the ME's, she called up Peabody.
"Status?"
"I've got two possibles so far, and my uniform's going to smell like smoke and whiskey for the next six months." Peabody grimaced. "Neither of my possibles claims to have known Thomas Brennen or to have an enemy in the world."
"Yeah, I'm getting the same line. Keep at it. We're running out of time."
Eve took the stairs down, then coded herself into security. She avoided the discreet, flower-laden waiting area and moved straight into the morgue.
The air there was cold, and carried the sly underlayer of death. The doors might have been steel and sealed, but death always found a way to make its presence known.
She'd left Brennen in Autopsy Room B, and since it was unlikely he'd taken himself off anywhere, she approached the security panel, holding up her badge for the scan.
Autopsy in progress, Brennen, Thomas X. Please observe the health and safety rules upon entering. You are cleared, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.
The door clicked, then unsealed with a whoosh of chilly air. Eve stepped in to see the trim and dapper form of Dr. Morris, the ME, gracefully removing Brennen's brain from his open skull.
"Sorry we're not finished up here, Dallas. We've had a flood of check-ins without reservations this morning. People—ha, ha—dying to get in."
"What can you tell me?"
Morris checked the weight of the brain, set it aside in fluid. His waist-length braid made a curling line down the back of his snowy white lab coat. Under it he wore a skin suit of virulent purple. "He was a healthy fifty-two-year-old man, and had once suffered a broken tibia. It mended well. He enjoyed his last meal about four and a half hours before death. Lunch, I'd say. Beef soup, bread, and coffee. The coffee was drugged."
"With?"
"A midline soother. Over-the-counter tranq. He'd have felt pretty relaxed, maybe with a slight buzz." Morris manually logged data into his portable log and spoke to Eve across the white and mutilated remains. "The first injury would have been the severed hand. Even with the soother in his system, that would have caused shock and quick, traumatic blood loss."
Eve remembered the walls of the apartment, the ghastly sprays of blood. She imagined the severed arteries had spurted and pumped like a fire hose on full.
"Whoever hacked him stopped the blood jet by cauterizing the stump."
"How?"
"My guess would be a hand torch." He grimaced. "It was a messy job. See where it's all blackened and crispy from the stump to the elbow. Say ouch."
"Ouch," Eve murmured and hooked her thumbs in her pockets. "What you're telling me is Brennen basically collapsed after the first attack—which accounts for the little to no sign of struggle in the apartment."
"He couldn't have fought off a drunk cockroach. Victim was restrained by his remaining wrist. Drugs administered were a combination of adrenaline and digitalis—that would keep the heart beating, the brain conscious while he was worked over." Morris blew out a breath. "And he was worked over good. Death didn't come quick or easy for this Irish rover."
Morris's eyes remained mild behind his safety goggles. He gestured with a sealed hand to a small metal tray. "I found that in his stomach along with his lunch."
Eve frowned down at the tray. The object was about the size of a five-dollar credit. It was glossy white with a bright green image painted on it. On the other side was an oblong shape that met at one end with crossed lines.
"A four-leaf clover," Morris supplied. "It's a symbol for good luck. Your murderer has a strong and nasty sense of irony. On the back—that funny shape? Your guess is as good as mine."
"I'll take it with me." Eve slipped the token into an evidence bag. "I intend to ask Dr. Mira to consult on this case. We need a profile. She'll contact you shortly."
"Always a pleasure to work with Mira, and you, Lieutenant." The communication band on his wrist buzzed. "Death Palace. Morris."
"Mrs. Eileen Brennen has arrived and requests to view her husband's remains."
"Take her on into my office. I'll be there shortly." He turned to Eve. "No use her seeing the poor bastard like this. You want to interview her?"
"Yes."
"Use my office as long as you need it. Mrs. Brennen can see the body in twenty minutes. He'll be…presentable by then."
"Thanks." She headed for the door.
"Dallas."
"Yeah?"
"Evil is—well, it's not a term I like to toss around like candy. Kind of embarrassing." He moved his shoulders. "But the guy who did this…it's the only word I can think of that fits."
• • •
Those words played back in Eve's head as she faced Eileen Brennen. The woman was trim and tidy. Though her eyes were dry, her face was waxy pale. Her hands didn't shake, but neither could they be still. She tugged at the gold cross that hung on a thin chain to her waist, tugged at the hem of her skirt, combed fingers through her wavy blond hair.