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The In Death Collection, Books 16-20

Page 113

by J. D. Robb


  “Was she threatened by her ex-husband?”

  He smiled, humorlessly. “Not anymore. She was a strong woman, who’d put him where he belonged. In the past.”

  “Do you know of anyone who’d want to hurt her?”

  “Absolutely no one. That’s the God’s truth. I can’t resign myself, not fully, to the fact that anyone did. I know you have a job to do, but so do I. My wife needs me, the children need me. Can we do whatever else needs to be done later?”

  “Yes. I want to take this.” She pulled out the roll of ribbon. “I can give you a receipt.”

  “Not necessary.” He pushed to his feet, rubbed his hands over his face. “I’ve heard you’re good at your job.”

  “I am good at it.”

  “I’m depending on you.” He offered his hand. “We all are.”

  They hit crafts stores, crisscrossing Manhattan on the way downtown. Eve had no idea there was so much involved in the making of so many things easily available ready-made. When she expressed the opinion, Peabody smiled and fingered some brightly colored thread sold in hanks.

  “There’s a lot of satisfaction in making something yourself. Picking the colors, the materials, the pattern. Individualizing it, and seeing it come to life.”

  “You say so.”

  “A lot of craftsmen and artisans in my family. Goes with the whole Free-Ager philosophy. I’m pretty handy myself, but I don’t have a lot of time for it. I still have the tea cozy my grandmother helped me crochet when I was ten.”

  “I don’t even know what that is.”

  “What, the tea cozy or crocheting?”

  “Either, and I find I have no interest in finding out.” She studied the shelves and displays, full of supplies and finished products. “A lot of the clerks we’ve talked to remember Maplewood. Don’t see a lot of men in these joints.”

  “Needlework remains primarily the work and/or hobby of the female. Too bad. It can be very relaxing. My uncle Jonas knits up a storm and claims it’s one of the reasons he’s a healthy, vital one hundred and six. Or seven. Maybe it’s eight.”

  Eve didn’t bother to respond but headed out of the shop. “Nobody, thus far, remembers any man bothering Elisa or any other customer for that matter. Nobody asking questions about her, loitering around. Same kind of ribbon. There has to be a connection.”

  “He could’ve bought it anywhere, any time. He might’ve seen her in one of the stores, then gone back later to buy his own. You know, they have these craft fairs, too. He could’ve bumped into her at one of those. I bet she’d go to the fairs, maybe take the kids.”

  “That’s a good line. Check it out with the Vanderleas.” She stood on the sidewalk, thumbs in front pockets, fingers tapping idly on her hips as people streamed or trudged around her. “Do that later. They need some space. We’re only a few blocks from the shelter. We’ll ask Louise about the witch.”

  “Sensitives aren’t necessarily witches, just as witches aren’t necessarily sensitives. Hey, a glide-cart!”

  “Wait, wait!” Eve pressed a hand to her temple, stared at the sky. “I’m getting a vision. It’s you stuffing a soy dog in your mouth.”

  “I was going to go for the fruit kabob and perhaps a small, walkaway salad. But now you’ve put the damn dog in my head and I have to have it.”

  “I knew that. Get me some fries, tube of Pepsi.”

  “I knew that,” Peabody replied. But she was too happy with the idea she’d actually get lunch to complain about paying for it.

  Chapter 4

  It didn’t look like a refuge, Eve thought. It looked, from the outside at least, like a well-maintained, modest, multiresident building. Middle-income apartments, sans doorman. The casual observer wouldn’t note anything special about it, even if he bothered to look.

  And that, Eve reminded herself, was precisely the point. The women and children who fled here didn’t want anyone to notice.

  But if you were a cop, you’d probably note and approve of the first-rate security. Full-scan cams, cleverly disguised in the simple trims and moldings. Privacy screens activated at all windows.

  If you were a cop and knew Roarke, you could be certain there were motion pads at every access, with top-of-the-line alarms. Entrée would require palm plate identification, keypad code, and/or clearance from inside. There would be twenty-four-hour security—probably human and droid—and you could bet your ass the entire place would lock down like a vault at any attempt to break in.

  Not just a refuge, but a fortress.

  Dochas, Gaelic for “hope,” was as safe—probably safer due to its anonymity—as the White House.

  If she’d known such places existed, would she have fled to one instead of wandering the streets of Dallas, a child broken, traumatized, and lost?

  No. Fear would have sent her running away from hope.

  Even now, knowing better, she felt uneasy stepping up to the door. Alleys were easier, she thought, because you knew there were rats in the dark. You expected them.

  But she reached up to ring the bell.

  Before she could signal, the door opened.

  Dr. Louise Dimatto, that blond bundle of energy, greeted them.

  She wore a pale blue lab coat over a simple black shirt and trousers. Two tiny gold hoops glinted in her left ear, with a third in the right. There were no rings on her competent fingers, and a plain, serviceable wrist unit sat on her left hand.

  Nothing about her screamed money, though she came from big green seas of it.

  She was pretty as a strawberry parfait, classy as a crystal flute of champagne, and a born reformer who lived to fight in the trenches.

  “About damn time.” She grabbed Eve’s hand and pulled her inside. “I was beginning to think I’d have to call nine-one-one to get you down here. Hi, Peabody. Boy, don’t you look great.”

  Peabody beamed. “Thanks.” After considerable experimentation, she’d found what she liked to think of as her detective look with simple lines, interesting colors, and matching airsneaks or skids.

  “We appreciate you making time,” Eve began.

  “Time’s constantly being made. My goal is to make enough so there’s twenty-six hours per day. That should be just about right. How about a tour?”

  “We need—”

  “Come on.” She kept Eve’s hand trapped in hers. “Let me show off a little. Remodeling and rehab are finally complete, though Roarke’s given me carte blanche for additional decorating or equipment. The man is now my god.”

  “Yeah, he likes that part.”

  Louise laughed, and hooked her arms through Eve’s on one side and Peabody’s on the other. “I don’t have to tell you the security is flawless.”

  “No security is flawless.”

  “Don’t be a cop,” she complained and gave Eve a little hip check. “We have common rooms down here. Kitchen—and the food’s great—dining area, library, a playroom, and what we call the family room.”

  Eve could already hear the chatter as Louise took them down a hallway, gesturing to rooms. Women and children chatter, Eve thought. The sort that always made her feel awkward and edgy.

  It smelled like girls, too—mostly—though she caught sight of what she thought were a couple of young boys loping off toward what was likely the kitchen area.

  There were scents of polish and flowers and what she thought might be hair products. Tones of lemon and vanilla and the hard-candy smell she always associated with groups of females.

  There was a lot of color in the place as well as a lot of room. Cheerful color, comfortable furniture, spots for sitting alone, spots for conversation.

  She saw immediately that the family room was the popular spot.

  There were about a dozen women of various ages and races gathered there. Sitting on sofas, on the floor with the kids, who were also of various ages and races. They were talking or sitting in silence, watching the entertainment screen or juggling babies on their laps.

  She wondered why people were forever bou
ncing babies when it seemed—from her wary observation—that the perpetual motion only caused whatever was in their digestive systems to come spewing out. Of either end.

  Not all the babies appeared to appreciate it, either. One of them was burbling in what might have been contentment, but two others were making sounds very reminiscent of emergency vehicles on the run.

  It didn’t seem to bother anyone, particularly. Certainly not the field of kids on the floor, playing or bickering over their chosen activities.

  “Ladies.”

  Conversation died off as the women looked toward the doorway. Children shut up like clams. Babies continued to wail or burble.

  “I’d like to introduce you to Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody.”

  In the moment’s pause, Eve saw the reaction to the thought of cops. The drawing into self, the nervous flicker of eyes, the gathering closer of children.

  The abuser might be the enemy and Louise the ally, but cops, Eve thought, were the unknown and could fall into either camp.

  “Lieutenant Dallas is Roarke’s wife, and this is her first visit.”

  There was relief for some—the easing of tension in faces and bodies, even tentative smiles. And for others, the suspicion remained.

  It wasn’t just a mix of ages and races. There was also a mix of injuries. Fresh bruises, fading ones. Mending bones. Mending lives.

  She knew their apprehension, felt it herself. And hated that while Louise looked at her expectantly, her skin was going cold, and her throat shutting down.

  “It’s a nice place you’ve got here,” she managed.

  “It’s a miracle.” The woman who spoke stood up. She limped slightly as she crossed the room. Eve pegged her at around forty, and from the looks of her face, she’d taken a nasty and recent beating. She held out a hand to Eve. “Thank you.”

  She didn’t want to take the hand offered. Didn’t want the connection, but there was no choice as the woman looked at her with expectation and, horribly, with gratitude. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You’re Roarke’s wife. If I’d had the courage to come to a place like this, to go to the police, to look for help before now, my daughter wouldn’t be hurt.”

  She turned slightly, gestured toward a girl with dark curly hair and a skincast on her right arm. “Come say hello to Lieutenant Dallas, Abra.”

  The girl obeyed, and though she pressed her body against her mother’s legs, she stared curiously up at Eve. “The police stop people from hurting you. Maybe.”

  “Yeah. They try to.”

  “My daddy hurt me, so we had to go away.”

  There would be a horrible snapping sound when the bone broke. A terrible and bright pain. A flood of greasy nausea. A red haze of shock over the eyes.

  Eve felt it all again as she stood there, staring down at the girl. She wanted to step back, far, far back. Away from it.

  “You’re okay now.” Her voice sounded thin and distant under the roaring in her ears.

  “He hurts my mama. He gets mad and he hurts her. But this time I didn’t hide in my room like she said, and he hurt me, too.”

  “He broke her arm.” Tears flooded the woman’s bruised eyes. “It took that to wake me up.”

  “You don’t blame yourself, Marly,” Louise said gently.

  “We can stay here with Dr. Louise, and nobody hurts you, and nobody yells or throws things.”

  “It’s a good place.” Peabody hunkered down as much to take the focus off Eve as to speak to the child. Her lieutenant looked ill. “I bet there’s lots to do.”

  “We have chores, and teachers. You have to do your chores and go to school. Then you can play. There’s a lady upstairs, and she’s having a baby.”

  “Is that so?” Peabody glanced back at Louise. “Now?”

  “First-stage labor. We have full obstetric and natal facilities, and a midwife on staff full-time. Try to keep off that leg as much as possible for another twenty-four, Marly.”

  “I will. It’s better. A lot better. Everything is.”

  “We really need to speak with you, Louise.”

  “All right, we’ll just . . .” Louise trailed off as she got a look at Eve’s face. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine. I’m fine. A little pressed for that time, that’s all.”

  “We’ll head up to my office.” Deliberately, she laid her fingers on Eve’s wrist as they walked back toward the stairs. “Your skin’s clammy,” she murmured. “Pulse is rapid and thready, and you’ve gone pale. Let me take you into Exam.”

  “I’m just tired.” She eased away. “We’re running on two hours’ sleep. I don’t need a doctor, I need an interview.”

  “Okay, all right, but you don’t get the interview unless you down a protein booster.”

  There was activity on the second floor as well. Voices behind closed doors. And weeping.

  “Therapy sessions,” Louise explained. “Sometimes they can get intense. Moira, a moment?”

  Two women were standing outside of what Eve assumed was another therapy room or office. One turned, and her gaze skipped over Louise and fastened on Eve. She murmured something to her companion, gave her a long hug, then started down the hall.

  Eve knew who she was. Moira O’Bannion, formerly of Dublin. The woman who’d known Roarke’s mother, and after more than thirty years had told him that what he’d known of his beginnings was a lie based on murder.

  Sickness curdled in Eve’s belly.

  “Moira O’Bannion, Eve Dallas, Delia Peabody.”

  “I’m so glad to meet you. I hope Roarke is well.”

  “He’s good. He’s fine.” Sweat began to slide like cold grease down her spine.

  “Moira’s one of our treasures. I stole her.”

  Moira laughed. “Recruited, we’ll say. Though dragooned wouldn’t be far off. Louise is fierce. You’re having the tour.”

  “Not exactly. It’s not a social call.”

  “Ah. I should let you get to business then. How’s Jana doing?”

  “Four centimeters dilated, thirty percent effaced last check. She’s got a ways to go.”

  “Let me know when she’s ready, will you? We’re all excited about the new baby.” Moira smiled at Peabody. “It’s good to meet you both, and I hope you won’t be strangers. My very best to Roarke,” she said to Eve and stepped out of their way.

  “Moira’s brilliant,” Louise said as she led the way to the next level. “She’s making a big difference here. I’ve been able to—ha—dragoon some of the best therapists, doctors, psychiatrists, and counselors in the city. I bless the day you stomped into my clinic downtown, Dallas. It was the start of the twisty path that led me here.”

  She opened a door, gestured them inside. “Not to mention leading me to Charles.” Briskly, she walked to a cabinet, and opened it to reveal a minifridgie. “Which reminds me, we’re setting up that dinner party I keep trying to pull off. Night after tomorrow, Charles’s place—it’s cozier than mine—eight o’clock. Suit you and McNab, Peabody?”

  “Sure. Sounds like fun.”

  “I’ve cleared it with Roarke.” She handed both Eve and Peabody a bottled protein booster.

  She’d have preferred ice-cold water and an open window so she could lean out, just breathe. “We’re in the middle of an investigation.”

  “Understood. Doctors and cops learn to be flexible and live with canceled social engagements. Barring emergencies, we’ll expect you. Now sit, drink your protein. Lemon flavored.”

  Because it was quicker than arguing and she could use a boost, Eve opened the bottle and chugged.

  The office was a big step up from the one Louise kept at her clinic. Roomier, more fancily furnished. Efficient, as you’d expect, but with style.

  “Swankier digs here,” Eve commented.

  “Roarke insisted, and I confess, he didn’t have to twist my arm. One of the elements we’re aiming for here is comfort. Hominess. We want these women, these kids, to feel at ease.”

  “
You’ve done a good job.” Peabody sat and savored her drink. “It feels like a home.”

  “Thanks.” Cocking her head, Louise studied Eve. “Well, you look better. Color’s back.”

  “Thanks, Doc.” Eve dumped the empty container in the recycler slot. “So. Celina Sanchez.”

  “Ah, Celina. Fascinating woman. I’ve known her for years. We went to school together for a couple of years. Her family’s loaded, like mine. Very, very conservative, like mine. She’s the black sheep. Like me. So, naturally enough, we’re friends. Why are you looking into her?”

  “She paid me a visit this morning. Claims she’s a psychic.”

  “She is.” Louise frowned, and got herself a bottle of fizzy water. “A very gifted sensitive, who practices professionally. Which is why she’s the black sheep. Her family disapproves of and is embarrassed by her work. As I said, very conservative. Why did she come to see you? Celina specializes in private consult, and party work.”

  “She claims she witnessed a murder.”

  “My God. Is she all right?”

  “She wasn’t there. She had a vision.”

  “Oh. That must’ve been horrible for her.”

  “So you buy it. Just like . . .” Eve snapped her fingers.

  “If Celina came to see you, told you she’d seen a murder, she saw one.” Thoughtfully, Louise sipped at her water. “She doesn’t hide her gift, but she keeps it all very professional and, well, you could say, surface.”

  “Define ‘surface’,” Eve prompted.

  “She enjoys what she does—what she has—and she’s geared it toward entertaining more than counseling, let’s say. She keeps it light. I’ve never known her to get involved with anything like this. Who was killed?”

  “A woman was raped, strangled, and mutilated in Central Park last night.”

  “I heard about that.” Louise sat behind a glossy and feminine desk. “There weren’t a lot of details. Your case?”

 

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