by J. D. Robb
"Seems kind of—I don't know—disrespectful," Peabody decided as she sealed the marble image.
"I'd think the Mother of God would find cold-blooded murder a bit more than disrespectful," Eve said dryly.
"Yeah, I suppose." Still, Peabody pushed the sealed statue into her bag where she didn't have to think about it.
"Now, he's got Brennen in here, on the bed. He doesn't want his man to bleed to death. He wants to take his time. Gotta stop that bleeding. So he cauterizes the stump, crudely, but it does the job."
She circled the bed, studying the grisly rust colored stains. "He gets to work. Secures his man to the bedpost, gets out his tools. He's precise. Maybe he was nervous before, but now he's just fine. Everything is going just as he wants. Now he puts his symbolic audience on the dresser so she has a good view. Maybe he says a prayer to her."
She frowned, looked back at the dresser, put the statue back in place in her mind. "Then he gets down to it," she continued. "He tells Brennen what he's going to do to him, and he tells him why. He wants him to know, he wants him to piss himself with fear, he wants to be able to smell the pain. This is payback, and payback's the big one. Passion, greed, power, they're all part of it, but revenge drives it all. He's waited a long time for this moment, and he's going to enjoy it. Every time Brennen screams, every time he begs, this guy gets off. When it's done, he's flying. But he's a mess, covered with blood and gore."
She moved toward the adjoining bath. It sparkled like gems, the sapphire walls, the ruby insets in the tiles, the silver dials and faucets. "He's come prepared. He had to be carrying a case of some kind, for the knives and rope. He's got a change of clothes in there. He'd have thought of that. So he showers, scrubs himself like a fucking surgeon. He scrubs the bathroom too, every inch. He's a goddamn domestic droid in here. He sterilizes it. He's got plenty of time."
"We didn't find a single hair or skin cell in here," Peabody agreed. "He was thorough."
Eve turned away, walked back into the bedroom. "The ruined clothes go back in his case, along with all his nasty tools. He gets himself dressed, watching where he steps. Don't want to get blood on our shiny shoes, do we? Maybe he stops back here for a last look at his work. Sure he does, he wants to take that image away with him. Does he say another prayer? Oh yeah, one for glory. Then he walks out, and he calls a cop."
"We can review the lobby tapes, check out anyone with briefcases or satchels."
"There are five floors of offices in this building. Every second person carts in a briefcase. There are fifty-two shops. Every third person has satchels." Eve moved her shoulders. "We'll look anyway. Summerset didn't do this, Peabody." When her aide remained silent, Eve turned impatiently. "Brennen was five-ten, but he was a hundred and ninety pounds—and a lot of that was muscle. Maybe, just maybe, a skinny, bone-ass fart like Summerset could take Brennen by surprise, but he doesn't have the arm to have severed flesh and bone with one swipe. And one swipe was what it took. Say he got lucky and managed that—how do you figure he hauled dead weight from here to the bedroom, then managed to drag that nearly two hundred pounds of dead weight up two and a half feet onto the bed? He isn't physical enough. He's got strong hands," she murmured, remembering well how those fingers had gripped her arm from time to time and bruised. "But he's got no muscle, no arm, and he's not used to lifting much more than a tea tray or his nose in the air."
Now she sighed. "And you have to figure that if he's smart enough to play electronic games with us, to fiddle with security discs, he'd have done better than to let himself get tagged walking into the lobby of the murder scene. Why didn't he wipe those discs while he was at it?"
"I hadn't thought of that," Peabody admitted.
"Somebody's setting him up, and they're setting him up to get to Roarke."
"Why?"
Eve stared into Peabody's eyes for a long ten seconds. "Let's seal up here."
"Dallas, I'm no good to you if you stick blinders on me."
"I know. Let's seal it up."
• • •
"I need air," Eve said when they were outside again and Peabody's recorder was tucked away. "And food. Any objections to getting both in Central Park?''
"No."
"Don't pout, Peabody," Eve warned as they climbed back into the car. "It's not attractive."
They drove in silence, squeezed into a street level parking spot, and headed off into the denuded trees. The wind had enough kick to make Eve fasten her jacket as they crunched dead leaves under their feet. At the first glide-cart Eve debated between a veggie hash pocket and a scoop of soy fries. She opted for grease while Peabody ordered a single healthy fruit kabob.
"Your Free-Ager's showing," Eve commented.
"I don't consider food a religious issue." Peabody sniffed and bit into a pineapple spear. "Though my body is a temple."
It made Eve smile. She was going to be forgiven. "I'm in possession of certain information that, as an officer of the law, I am duty bound to report to my superior. I have no intention of doing so."
Peabody studied a slice of hothouse peach, slid it off the stick. "Would this information have relevance in a case currently under investigation?"
"It would. If I share this information with you, you would also be duty bound to report it. Not doing so would make you an accessory after the fact. You'd risk your badge, your career, and very likely some portion of your freedom."
"It's my badge, my career, my freedom."
"Yes, it is." Eve stopped, turned. The wind ruffled her hair as she studied the earnest face, the sober eyes. "You're a good cop, Peabody. You're on your way to earning a detective's shield. I know that's important to you. I know what mine meant to me."
She looked away to where two uniformed nannies watched their young charges play on the grass. Nearby a jogger stopped along the path to stretch, to shift the bottle of anti-mugging spray on his hip when a licensed beggar meandered in his direction. Overhead, a park security copter cruised lazily with monotonous thudding blades.
"This information I have affects me personally, so I've made the choice. It doesn't affect you."
"With respect, Lieutenant, it does. If you're questioning my loyalty—"
"It isn't a matter of loyalty, Peabody. This is the law, this is duty, this…" Heaving a breath, she dropped down on a bench. "This is a mess."
"If you share this information with me, will it help me assist you in apprehending the killer of Thomas Brennen and Shawn Conroy?"
"Yes."
"Do you want my word that said information remains between us?"
"I have to ask for it, Peabody." She looked over as Peabody sat beside her. "With regret, I have to ask you to promise me you'll violate your duty."
"You have my word, Lieutenant. With no regret."
Eve squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. Some bonds, she realized, were formed quickly and held fast. "It started in Dublin," she began, "almost twenty years ago. Her name was Marlena."
She related it all, carefully and concisely, using the cop speak that both of them understood best. When it was done, they continued to sit. Eve's lunch lay untouched on her lap. Somewhere deeper in the park birds sang, their voices competing with the drone of traffic.
"I never thought of Summerset having a daughter," Peabody said at length. "Losing her like that. There's nothing worse, is there?"
"I suppose not. But somehow something worse always comes along. Revenge. Marlena to Summerset to Roarke. It fits like a skin suit. A shamrock on one side, the Church on the other. A game of luck, a mission from God."
"If he set Summerset up, knew he'd be in the Towers, doctored the discs, he had to know about his date with Audrey Morrell."
"Yeah. People are never as discreet as they think they are, Peabody. My guess is at least half that painting class knew they were eyeballing each other. So, we check out the art students." She rubbed her eyes. "I need a list from Roarke—the names of the men he killed. The names of everyone he can think of who helped him track the
m."
"Which list do you want me to run?"
It surprised Eve to feel her eyes sting. Overtired, she told herself and willed back the tears. "Thanks. I owe you big for this."
"Okay. You going to eat those fries?"
With a half laugh, Eve shook her head and passed them over. "Help yourself."
"Dallas, how are you going to get around the commander?"
"I'm working on that." Because it made Eve's stomach uneasy, she rubbed it absently. "Right now, we have to get back to Central and goose McNab on the jams. I have to deal with the media before this explodes. I need the sweeper's and ME's reports on the Conroy homicide, and I have to have a fight with Roarke."
"Busy day."
"Yeah, all I have to do is fit the commander in, and it'll be perfect."
"Why don't I go harass McNab and you can go bribe Nadine Furst?"
"Good thinking."
• • •
Eve didn't have to find Nadine. The reporter was in Eve's office, grinning at Eve's communication center. The guts of it were spread over the desk.
"A little electronic blip, Dallas?"
"Peabody, go find McNab and kill him."
"Right away, Lieutenant."
"Nadine, how many times have I told you to stay out of my office?"
"Oh, dozens, I imagine." Still grinning, Nadine sat down and crossed her shapely legs. "I don't know why you bother. So, who was Shawn Conroy and why was he killed in Roarke's house?"
"It wasn't Roarke's house, it was one of Roarke's properties, of which he has legion." She angled her head, lifted her eyebrows meaningfully. "That's a qualification I'm sure you'll include in your report."
"My exclusive report." Nadine smiled her sunny smile. "Which will include a statement from the primary."
"You'll get your statement, and your exclusive." Eve shut the door, locked it.
"Hmm." Nadine lifted one perfectly arched brow. "That was entirely too easy. What's it going to cost me?"
"Nothing yet. You're running a tab. The NYPSD is investigating the murder of Shawn Conroy, Irish citizen, unmarried, forty-one years of age, bartender by trade. Following an anonymous tip, the primary in the case—with the assistance of Roarke—discovered the victim in an empty rental unit."
"How was he killed? I heard it was nasty."
"The details of the crime are not available to the media at this time."
"Come on, Dallas." Nadine leaned forward. "Gimme."
"Nope. But the police are investigating a possible connection between this crime and the murder, on Friday last, of communication tycoon—and Irish citizen—Thomas X. Brennen."
"Brennen? Jesus. Friday?" Nadine leaped to her feet. "Brennen's been killed? Christ Almighty, he owned majority stock in Channel 75. Holy God, how did we miss this? How did it happen? Where?"
"Brennen was killed in his New York residence. Police are pursuing leads."
"Leads? What leads? God, I knew him."
Eve's eyes narrowed. "Did you really?"
"Sure, I met him dozens of times. Station functions, charity events. He even sent me flowers after—after that business last spring."
"The business where you nearly got your throat slit."
"Yes," Nadine snapped and sat again. "And I haven't forgotten who made sure I didn't. I liked him, Dallas. Damn it, he's got a wife, kids." She brooded a moment, pretty fingers tapping her knee. "The station's going to be in an uproar when this hits. And half the media around the world. How did it happen?"
"At this point, we believe he surprised an intruder."
"So much for security," she muttered. "Walked in on a damn burglary."
Eve said nothing, pleased that Nadine had jumped to that particular conclusion.
"A connection?" Her eyes sharpened. "Shawn Conroy was Irish, too. Do you believe he was involved in the burglary? Did they know each other?"
"We'll investigate that angle."
"Roarke's Irish."
"So I've heard," Eve said dryly. "Off the record," she began, and waited for Nadine's reluctant nod. "Roarke knew Shawn Conroy back in Ireland. It's possible—just possible—that the house where Conroy was taken out was being cased. It was furnished—well, as I'm sure you can imagine how well. And the new tenants weren't due to move in for a couple of days. Until we nail things down a bit, I'd like to keep Roarke's name out of it, or as far in the background as possible."
"Shouldn't be hard at this point. Every station, and certainly ours, is going to hit with the Brennen story—then we'll do a lot of retrospectives, biographies, that sort of thing. I've got to get this in."
She leaped up again. "Appreciate it."
"Don't." Eve unlocked the door, opened it. "You'll pay for it eventually."
And now, Eve mused, rubbing her temple, she could only hope she could bluff and bullshit her commander with half as much success.
• • •
"Your report seems sparse, Lieutenant," Whitney commented after Eve had finished backing up her written report with an oral one.
"We don't have a lot to work with at this stage, Commander." She sat, face composed, voice bland, meeting Whitney's sharp dark eyes without a blink. "McNab from EDD is working on the jams and trace, but he doesn't appear to be having much success. Feeney will be back in about a week."
"McNab has a very good record with the department."
"That may be, but so far, he's stumped. His words, Commander. The killer is highly skilled in electronics and communications. It's possible that's his link with Brennen."
"That wouldn't explain Conroy."
"No, sir, but the Irish connection does. They knew each other, casually at least, in Dublin some years ago. It's possible they continued, or renewed, the acquaintance in New York. As you've reviewed the tape of the transmissions I received from the killer, you know the motive is revenge. The killer knew them, most likely in Dublin. Conroy continued to live in Dublin until three years ago. Brennen has his main residence there. It would be to our benefit to enlist the aid of the Dublin police to investigate that angle. Something these men did, or some deal they were part of in Ireland in the last few years."
"Roarke has interests there as well."
"Yes, sir, but he's had no recent dealings with either Conroy or Brennen. I checked. He's had no business or personal contact with them in a more than a decade."
"Revenge often takes time to chill." He steepled his fingers and studied Eve over the tips. "Do you intend to bring Summerset back into Interview?"
"I'm weighing that option, Commander. His alibi for the time of Brennen's murder is weak, but it's plausible. Audrey Morrell confirmed their date. It's more than possible they confused the times. The manner of Brennen's death, and Conroy's as well, doesn't fit Summerset. He isn't physical enough to have managed it."
"Not alone."
Eve felt her stomach stutter but nodded. "No, not alone. Commander, I'll pursue the leads. I'll investigate Summerset and any and all suspects, but it's my personal belief, and a strong personal belief, that Summerset would do nothing to harm or implicate Roarke in any way. He is devoted—even overly devoted. And I believe, Commander, that Roarke is a future target. He's the goal. That's why I was contacted."
Whitney said nothing for a moment as he measured Eve. Her eyes were clear and direct, her voice had been steady. He imagined she was unaware that she'd linked her fingers together and that her knuckles were white.
"I agree with you. I could ask you if you'd prefer to be taken off the case, but I'd be wasting my breath."
"Yes, sir."
"You'll interview Roarke." He paused while she remained silent. "And I imagine there will be no official report of said interview. Be careful how far you bend the rules, Dallas. I don't want to lose one of my best officers."
"Commander." She rose. "His mission isn't complete. He'll contact me again. I've already got a feel for him, an impression of type, but I'd like to consult with Dr. Mira on a profile as soon as possible."
"Arrange it."<
br />
"And I intend to work as much as possible out of my home. My equipment there is…superior to what's available to me at Cop Central."
Whitney allowed a smirk to twist his wide face. "I bet it is. I'm going to allow you as much free rein as I can on this, for as long as I can. I can tell you that time will be short. If there's another body, that time's going to be even shorter."
"Then I'll work fast."
*** CHAPTER SEVEN ***
Halfway up the long, curving drive Eve sat in her car and studied the house that Roarke built. That wasn't entirely accurate, she supposed. The structure would have been there for more than a century, ready for someone with money and vision to buy it. He'd had both and had polished a stone and glass palace that suited him beautifully.
She was at home there now, or more at home than she'd ever imagined she could be. There with the towers and turrets, the graceful lawns and glamorous shrubberies. She lived among the staggering antiques, the thick carpets from other lands, the wealth and the privilege.
Roarke had earned it—in his way. She had done nothing more than tumble into it.
They had both come from the streets and misery, and had chosen different paths to make their own. She had needed the law, the order, the discipline, the rules. Her Childhood had been without any of them, and the early years that she had so successfully blanked out for so long had begun to hurtle back at her, viciously, violently, over the past months.
Now she remembered too much, and still not all.
Roarke, she imagined, remembered all, in fluid and perfeet detail. He wouldn't allow himself to forget what he'd been or where he'd come from. He used it.
His father had been a drunk. And so had hers. His father had abused him. And so had hers. Their childhoods had been smashed beyond repair, and so they had built themselves into adults at an early age, one standing for the law, and one dancing around it.
Now they were a unit, or trying to be.
But how much of what she had made herself, and he had made himself, could blend?
That was about to be tested, and their marriage, still so new and bright, so terrifying and vital to her, would either hold or fail.