The In Death Collection, Books 16-20

by J. D. Robb

  Tennis guy immediately rushed forward. “Boots! You can’t walk on this surface without the proper foot attire.”

  “I’m not here to whack balls.” She held up her badge. “I need a moment with Mrs. Hawthorne.”

  “Well, you have to take those off, or stand on the sidelines. We have rules.”

  “What’s the problem, Hank?”

  “There’s a policewoman here, Mrs. H.”

  “Oh.” Darla bit her lip, and patting her heart walked over to the end of the net. “If this is about that speeding ticket, I’m going to pay it. I just—”

  “I’m not Traffic. Can I have a minute?”

  “Oh, sure. Hank, I could use a break anyway. Getting all sweaty.” She walked, with a lot of swinging hip, to a bench, opened a pink bag and took out a bottle of designer water.

  “Could you tell me where you were night before last? Between midnight and three.”

  “What?” Beneath the glow on her perfect oval face, Darla paled. “Why?”

  “It’s just a routine stop in a matter I’m investigating.”

  “Sweetie knows I was home.” Her eyes, mermaid green, began to swim. “I don’t know why he’d have you investigating me.”

  “I’m not investigating you, Mrs. Hawthorne.”

  Hank walked over, handed her a small towel. “Any problem, Mrs. H?”

  “No problem here, go flex your muscles someplace else.” Dismissing him, Eve sat beside Darla. “Midnight and three, night before last.”

  “I was home in bed.” She shot Eve a defiant look now. “With Sweetie. Where else would I be?”

  Good question, Eve thought.

  She asked about the writing paper, but Darla shrugged it off. Yes, they’d been in Europe in August, and she bought a lot of things. Why shouldn’t she? How was she supposed to remember everything she’d bought or that Sweetie bought for her?

  Dallas circled around for another few minutes, then stood so Darla could walk back, and be comforted by Hank. He shot Eve a nasty look before leading his student toward what Eve assumed was the clubhouse.

  “Interesting,” Eve stated aloud. “Looks like our Darla was out, practicing on Hank’s balls during at least part of the time in question.”

  “Definitely getting more than instruction on her backswing,” Peabody agreed. “Poor Sweetie.”

  “If Sweetie knows his wife’s playing singles with her tennis pro, he could’ve used the time she was out pulling his racket to get downtown, do Wooton. You got a wife’s running cross-court on you, it pisses you off. So you not only kill a whore—and what’s your young, unfaithful wife but a whore—but you use the cheating bitch as your alibi. Game, set, match. Very neat.”

  “Yeah, and I liked your tennis metaphors, too.”

  “We do what we can. Anyway, it’s a theory. Let’s go see what else we can dig up on Hawthorne.”

  He’d been married three times, as Roarke had stated, with each successive spouse younger than the preceding one. He’d divorced both former Mrs. Hawthornes, and had nipped them off with the lowest possible financial package, as arranged through a premarital agreement. An iron-clad one from the results, Eve mused.

  The man was no fool.

  Would such a careful and canny man be oblivious to his current wife’s activities?

  He had no criminal record, though he’d been sued a number of times in civil court for various financial deals. A quick scan told her most of them were nuisance suits, brought by unhappy and unlucky investors.

  He owned four homes, and six vehicles, including a yacht, and was associated with numerous charities. His reported worth was just under a billion.

  Golf, according to the various media articles and features she scanned through, appeared to be his god.

  Every name on her list had an alibi corroborated by a spouse or partner or employee. Which meant none of them held much weight.

  Sitting back, Eve propped her feet on her desk, closed her eyes, and took herself back into the Chinatown alley.

  She walks in ahead of him. She leads the john. Her feet hurt. She’s got a bunion. Shoes are killing her. Two in the morning. Hot, airless. Not much business tonight. Only two hundred in her cash bag.

  Gives her four, maybe five johns on this circuit, depending what they wanted.

  Been in the game a long time, knows to get payment up-front. Did he take it back, or didn’t he give her a chance to take it? No chance, she decided. He’d want to move fast. Spins her around. Wants her facing the wall.

  Does he touch her? Run his hand over her breast, her ass, slide it over her crotch?

  No, no time for that. Not interested in that. Especially after the blood gushes out on his hands.

  Warm blood. That’s what got him off.

  Against the wall. Tug her head back by the hair. Left hand. Slice the scalpel over her throat with the right. Left to right, slight downward path.

  Blood gushes, splashes on the wall, splashes back at her face, her body, his hands.

  She’s alive for a few seconds, just a few, shocked seconds when she can’t scream, and her body jerks a little as it dies.

  Lay her down, head toward the opposite wall. Get out your tools.

  A light, some sort of light. Can’t do that sort of precision work in the dark. Laser scalpel, use the light from the laser scalpel to guide the way.

  Put what you came for in a leakproof bag, clean off your hands. Change your shirt or take off what you were wearing over it. Everything in a bag or case now. Check yourself, make sure you’ll pass on the street.

  Take out the note. Smile at it, amuse yourself. Place it carefully on the body.

  Walk out of the alley. Fifteen minutes, maybe. No more than fifteen, and you’re walking away. Carrying your prize back to your car. Excited, but controlled. Need to drive carefully. Can’t risk a routine stop when you smell of death and have that part of her with you.

  Back home. Reset security. Shower. Dispose of your clothes.

  You did it. You’ve imitated one of the great killers of the modern age, and no one’s the wiser.

  She opened her eyes, stared up at the ceiling. If it was one of her five current candidates, he’d have to dispose of the body part as well, or have a very secure place to keep it as a souvenir.

  Would a regular household recycler handle that sort of thing, or would you need something that handled medical waste? She’d need to check on that.

  Bringing up a map on-screen, she calculated time and distance from the murder site to each of the suspect’s residences. Giving fifteen minutes in the alley, the time to hunt the victim—likely scoped out at some point earlier—clean up, drive home. Any of them could have done the job in under two hours.

  Straightening up, she began to type up a report, hoping inspiration would strike. When it didn’t, she read over the facts, finished it off, and filed it.

  She spent another hour learning about recyclers and the availability of laser scalpels. And decided to go back to the scene.

  The street did a decent business during the day. A couple of bars, a storefront eatery, a market, and a money exchange were the closest businesses to the alley.

  Only the bars had been open after midnight, and both of them were at the far ends of the block. Though the neighborhood had already been canvassed, she swung through each place again, running the routine, asking the questions, coming away empty.

  She ended up standing at the mouth of the alley again with the beat cop, the neighborhood security droid, and Peabody.

  “Like I said,” the cop named Henley told her, “I knew her, the way you know the locals LCs. She never caused any trouble. Technically, they’re not supposed to use the alley or any public access for work, but most of them do. We roust them now and again for it.”

  “She ever complain about any john getting rough or hassling her?”

  “Wouldn’t have.” Henley shook his head. “She steered clear of me, and the droid. Give me a little nod if we passed each other on patrol, but she wasn�
�t the friendly sort. We get some rough stuff in this sector—johns and janes slapping an LC around. You got some mopes coming through mugging them, and sometimes they wave a sticker around. Had some use ’em, but not like this. Never had anything like this.”

  “I want a copy of any reports where they used a sticker, any kind of blade.”

  “I can get that for you, Lieutenant,” the droid told her. “How far back do you want to go?”

  “Give me a full year. Keep it to attacks on women, with LCs the priority. Maybe he practiced first.”

  “Yes, sir. Where should I transmit?”

  “Send it to me at Central. Henley, where’s the safest place to park in this area? Street or underground, not a surface lot or port.”

  “Well, you want quiet, lower crime, probably you’d go west, maybe Lafayette. You want busy, so there’s too much going on for anybody to mess with your ride, you could hike it up the other side of Canal, into Little Italy. Restaurants stay open late.”

  “Okay, we’re going to try this. One of you take from here to Lafayette, the other head north. Ask residents, merchants who might have been around at that time of night, if they noticed a guy alone carrying a bag. Some kind of bag, good-sized one. He’d’ve been moving along pretty quick, no meandering, and going for a car. Talk to the LCs,” she added. “One of them may have tried to hustle him and got brushed off.”

  “Long shot, sir,” Peabody said when they’d split off again.

  “Somebody saw him. They don’t know it, but they saw him. We get lucky, jog a few memories.” She stood on the sidewalk, baking in the heat as she scanned the street.

  “We’re going to have to see how much we can stretch the budget for added security and surveillance for a square mile around this scene. He’ll stick to the mile, stick to the script. And it played too well for him the first time—he’s not going to want to wait too long before act two.”

  Chapter 6

  It was a difficult meeting for him to take. It had to be done, and Roarke could only hope that some of the weight he was carrying at the base of his skull would lift once it was over.

  He’d put it off too long already, and that wasn’t like him. Then again, he hadn’t felt completely like himself since he’d met Moira O’Bannion, and she’d told him her tale.

  His mother’s story.

  Life, he thought, as he stared out the wide window wall of his midtown office, could take a big chunk out of your ass when you were least prepared for it.

  It was after five already, and his timing had been deliberate. He’d wanted to meet with Moira at the end of the day, so that there was no business to be done afterward. So that he could go home and try to shift it all aside with an evening out with his wife.

  His interoffice ’link beeped, and damn him, he nearly jolted.

  “Yes, Caro.”

  “Ms. O’Bannion’s here.”

  “Thanks. Bring her back.”

  He watched the traffic, air and sky, and thought idly that the trip home would be a bit of a bitch just now. The commuter trams were already loaded, and from his lofty perch he could see dozens of tired, irritable faces packed together like rowers on a slave ship for the hot journey home.

  On the street below, buses were chugging, cabs standing like a clogged river, and the walks and people glides were mobbed.

  Eve was down there somewhere, he expected. No doubt having an annoyed thought at the prospect of having to dress up and socialize after a day of chasing a killer.

  More than likely, she’d rush in, flustered, with minutes to spare and struggling to make that odd transition from cop to wife. He doubted she had any idea how it thrilled and delighted him to see her make that slippery change.

  At the knock on his door, he turned. “Yes.”

  His admin brought her in, so that he found himself amused, for a moment, at the sight of two neat, trim, well-dressed women of a certain age stepping into his office.

  “Thank you, Caro. Ms. O’Bannion, thank you for coming. Won’t you have a seat? Would you like anything? Coffee? Tea?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  He took her hand, felt hers tremble lightly as he shook it. He gestured to a chair, knowing his manner was smooth, practiced, cool. He couldn’t quite help it.

  “I appreciate you making the time for me,” he began, “especially so late in the day.”

  “It’s not a problem.”

  He could see her taking in his office—the space of it, the style. The art, the furniture, the equipment, the things he was able to surround himself with.

  Needed to surround himself with.

  “I thought to come to Dochas, but it occurred to me that having a man around the shelter too often may make some of the women, the children, nervous.”

  “It’s good for them to be around men. Men who treat them as people and wish them no harm.” She folded her hands in her lap, and though she met his eyes levelly, he could almost hear the quick beat of her heart. “Part of breaking the cycle of abuse is overcoming fear, and reestablishing self-esteem and normal relationships.”

  “I wouldn’t argue that, but I wonder—if Siobahn Brody had had more fear, would she have survived? I don’t know precisely what to say to you,” he continued before she could speak. “Or precisely how to say it. I thought I did. First, I want to apologize for taking so long to meet with you again.”

  “I’ve been waiting to be fired.” Like his, her voice carried Ireland in it, in wisps and whispers. “Is that why you brought me here today?”

  “It’s not, no. I’m sorry, I should’ve realized you’d be concerned after the way I left things. I was angry and . . . distracted.” He gave a short laugh and had to stop himself from raking a hand through his hair. Nerves, he thought. Well, she wasn’t the only one dealing with them. “That’s one way to put it.”

  “You were furious, and ready to boot me out on my ass.”

  “I was. I told myself you were lying.” His eyes stayed on hers, level and serious. “Had to be. Had to be some angle in there for you telling me this girl you knew back in Dublin was my mother. It was counter to everything I’d known, believed, my whole life, you see.”

  “Yes. I do see it.”

  “There have been others, from time to time, who’ve wormed their way to me with some story of a relation. Uncle, brother, sister, what have you. Easily refuted, ignored, dealt with.”

  “What I told you wasn’t a story, Roarke, but God’s truth.”

  “Aye, well.” He looked down at his hands and knew in their shape—the width of palm, the length of fingers—they were his father’s hands. “I knew that, somewhere in the belly, I knew it. It made it worse. Almost unbearable really.”

  He looked up again, met her eyes again. “You’ve a right to know I checked on you, deeply.”

  “I expected you would.”

  “And I checked on her. On myself. I’d never done so before, not carefully.”

  “I don’t understand that. I wouldn’t have told you the way I did if I hadn’t thought you’d know some of it. A man like you would know whatever he needed to know.”

  “It was a point of pride to me that it didn’t matter. Wouldn’t matter, particularly when I believed my mother was Meg Roarke and I was as glad to see the back of her as she was of me.”

  Moira let out a long breath. “I said no to coffee before because my hands were shaking. I wonder if I might trouble you for some after all.”

  “Of course.” He rose and walked over to open a panel in the wall. Inside was a fully equipped minikitchen. When she laughed, he turned in the act of programming coffee.

  “I’ve never seen the like of this office. So posh. My feet nearly sank to the ankles in the carpet. You’re young to have so much.”

  The smile he sent her was more grim than amused. “I started early.”

  “So you did. My stomach’s still jumping.” She pressed a hand to it. “I was certain you were bringing me in to fire me, maybe to threaten legal action of some sort. I didn
’t know how I was going to tell my family, or the guests at Dochas. I hated thinking I’d have to leave. I’ve gotten attached.”

  “As I said, I checked on you. They’re lucky to have you at the shelter. How would you like your coffee?”

  “Plenty of cream, if you don’t mind. Is this whole building yours, then?”

  “It is.”

  “It’s like a great black spear, powerful and elegant. Thanks.” She accepted the coffee and took the first sip. Her eyes widened, then narrowed as she sniffed the contents of the cup. “Is this real coffee?”

  And that weight at the base of his skull vanished with a quick, appreciative laugh. Gone, at last. “It is, yes. I’ll send you some. The first time I met my wife, I gave her coffee and she had a similar reaction. I sent her some as well. Might be why she married me.”

  “I doubt that very much.” She kept her gaze steady on his now. “Your mother is dead, and he killed her, didn’t he? Patrick Roarke murdered her, as I always believed.”

  “Yes. I went to Dublin and verified it.”

  “Will you tell me how?”

  Beat her to death, he thought. Beat her bloody and dead, with hands so much like my own. Then threw her away in the river. Threw away the poor dead girl who’d loved him enough to give him a son.

  “No, I won’t. Only that I tracked down a man who’d been with him in those days, and who knew of it. Knew her and what happened.”

  “If only I’d had more experience and less arrogance . . .” Moira began.

  “It wouldn’t have mattered. If she’d stayed in the shelter in Dublin, or gone back to her family in Clare, or run. As long as she’d taken me, it wouldn’t have mattered. For whatever reason, pride, meanness, bloody-mindedness, he wanted me.”

  The knowledge of that would haunt him for all of his days. Maybe it was meant to. “And he’d have found her.”

  “That’s the kindest thing you could say to me,” she murmured.

  “It’s just truth.” And he needed to get past it as best he could. “I went to Clare. I saw her family. My family.”

  “Did you?” She reached out, laid a hand on his arm. “Oh, I’m so glad. I’m so glad for that.”