by J. D. Robb
“Doesn’t matter.”
“I was afraid to. Some part of me I didn’t want to look at was afraid to go there. It hurt to go.” She released his hand. She had to do this, say this, on her own. “To see those women, those kids. To feel that fear. Even more to feel the hope. Even more than that. It brought it back.”
“Eve.”
“No, you just listen. There was this girl—you know, sometimes I think fate just slaps something down in front of you and makes you deal. Her arm was in a skincast. Her father had broken it.”
“Oh, Christ.”
“She talked to me; I talked back. I can’t remember exactly. My head was buzzing and my stomach was clenched. I was afraid I’d be sick right there, or just fucking pass out. But I didn’t. I got through it.”
“You don’t ever have to go back again.”
She shook her head. “Just wait. I dropped Peabody at home, saw Mira, came here. I needed sleep. I thought I would just sleep, but it caught up with me. It was bad, you know it was bad. But you don’t know that in the nightmare I was back there, in the shelter. With all those battered women, all those broken kids. And they’re asking me why I didn’t stop it, why I let it happen.”
She held up a hand so he wouldn’t interrupt, though she saw her own pain reflected on his face. “He was there. I knew he’d come. He said there’d always be more. More of him, more of them. I couldn’t stop it. When he reached for me, I wasn’t me anymore. I mean not who I am now. I was a kid. He broke my arm, just like before, and he raped me, just like before.”
She had to pause, had to wet her throat with wine. “But here’s the thing. I killed him, just like before. And I’ll keep killing him, as long as it takes. Because he’s right. There’s always more of them—the brutal and the battered. There’s always more, and I can’t stop it all. But I can damn well do the job and stop some of it. I have to.”
She let out a breath. “I can go back there. I want to go back there, because I know when I do I won’t be scared or sick—or if I am, it won’t be as much, as bad. I’ll go there because I can see what you’ve done, what you’re doing, is another way to stop it. Her arm was broken, but it’ll heal. So will she, because you’ve given her a chance.”
It took him a moment, a long moment, before he could speak. “You are the most amazing woman I’ve ever known.”
“Yeah.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “We’re a hell of a pair.”
Chapter 6
Eve took a detour to EDD. It was always a culture shock for her to walk into a division where cops dressed like partygoers or weekend loafers. Lots of airboots and neon hues, and as many people walking or trotting around talking on headsets as manning cubes and desks.
Music blatted out, and she actually saw a guy dancing, or she assumed it was dancing, while he worked with a handheld and portascreen.
She made tracks through the bull pen and directly into Captain Ryan Feeney’s office, where she expected to find sanity.
She lost the power of speech when she saw him, the reliable Feeney, with his fading vacation tan, his wiry ginger hair threaded with gray. His face was comfortably creased and droopy, but instead of one of the rumpled shirts he habitually wore, he was decked out in a stiff and spotless one the color of raspberry sherbet.
And he had on a tie. A tie. The closest she could come to describing the color was what you might get if you electrocuted grass.
“Jesus Christ, Feeney. What’re you wearing?”
The look he sent her was that of a man bearing up under a hideous emotional weight. “Wife said I needed to start wearing color. Bought this getup then hung over me, nagged my ears off until I put it on.”
“You look . . . you look like a manager for street LCs.”
“Tell me. Look at these pants.” He shot out a leg so Eve was treated to the sight of that skinny limb wrapped in modified skin-pants in the same electric shade as the tie.
“God. I’m sorry.”
“Boys out there think I look iced. What’re you going to do?”
“I don’t honestly know.”
“Tell me you’ve got a case for me, something that’s going to take me out in the field where I can get bloody.” He lifted his fists, a boxer’s pose. “Wife can’t bitch if these glad rags get ruined on the job.”
“I’ve got a case, but I’ve got no fieldwork in the E area. Wish I could help you out. Can’t you at least take that noose off?”
He tugged at the tie. “You don’t know the wife like I do. She’ll call. She’ll be doing a damn spot-check on me all through shift to make sure I’m suited up. It’s got a jacket, Dallas.”
“You poor bastard.”
“Ah well.” He let out a heavy sigh. “What’re you doing in my world?”
“The case. Sexual homicide with mutilation.”
“Central Park. Heard you caught that one. We’re doing the standard on the ’links and comps. You need more?”
“Not exactly. Can I close this?” She gestured toward his door, got the nod. When she’d shut it, she went over to sit on the corner of his desk. “What’s your stand on consulting with psychics on the job?”
He pulled his nose. “Not much call for it in my division. When I worked Homicide, we’d get calls now and then from people claiming they had visions, or information from the spirit world. You know that.”
“Yeah, still do. We waste time and manpower following them up, then go along and investigate with our measly five senses.”
“Got some genuines out there.” He pushed away from the desk to program for coffee. “Most departments these days have a sensitive attached as civilian consultant. More than a few carry badges, too.”
“Yeah, well. We were partnered up for a long time.”
He handed her a mug of coffee. “Those were the days.”
“We never used a sensitive.”
“No? Well, you use what you use when the tool fits.”
“I’ve got one claims she saw the Central Park murder in a dream.”
Feeney sipped contemplatively. “You check her out?”
“Yeah, and she jibes. Licensed and registered. Got a reference from Louise Dimatto.”
“Doc’s not an asshole.”
“No, she’s not. If you were me, would you bring her in?”
He lifted a shoulder. “You know the answer to that.”
She frowned into her coffee. “You use what you use. Yeah, I know. I guess I just wanted to hear it from somebody who’s got his feet planted. Thanks.”
She set the nearly untouched coffee down. She was getting spoiled, she thought. She was finding it easier and easier to walk away from the stuff if it wasn’t real coffee. “Thanks.”
“No sweat. Let me know if you need somebody to dig in, get his hands, and personal attire, dirty.”
“Will do. Ah, you know somebody could spill coffee on that getup. Wouldn’t be your fault.”
He sent her a pitying look. “She’d know. Ain’t nobody more psychic than a wife.”
She rounded up Peabody. If she was going to consult with a psychic, she was going to run the possibility by her commander first.
Whitney listened as she gave her oral to back up the data she’d already sent to his attention. He didn’t interrupt, but sat quiet at his desk, a big man with dark skin and close-cropped silvering hair. Years of riding a desk hadn’t wiped the cop out of him. It reached right down to the bone.
The only change in his wide, sober face was a quick lift of eyebrows when she mentioned Celina Sanchez. When her report was complete, he nodded, then eased back.
“Psychic consultant. Not your usual style, Lieutenant.”
“No, sir.”
“The media liaison is handling the public information front for now. We’ll continue to omit the exact nature of the mutilation, as well as the description of the murder weapon. If you decide to consult a sensitive, that data will also be omitted.”
“She’s firm on that, Commander. If I consult with her, I wouldn’t feel co
mfortable giving her name to the liaison, or anyone beyond the active investigative team.”
“Understood. The name of your sensitive sounds familiar to me. I may have met her at some time or other. Socially. I’ll check with my wife, who has a better memory for that sort of thing.”
“Yes, sir. Do you want me to wait to speak with Ms. Sanchez again until you’ve done so?”
“No. This is your call. Detective, your opinion on this matter?”
Peabody’s spine snapped straight. “Mine, sir? Ah . . . I might be more open to extrasensory gifts, Commander. We have sensitives in my family.”
“Would you be one of them?”
She relaxed enough to smile. “No, sir. I just have the basic five. I believe, as Lieutenant Dallas believes, that Celina Sanchez is worth at least a follow-up interview.”
“Then talk to her. If and when the eyes leak to the media, we’ll see this case blasted on and through every media outlet. We need to close it before the circus comes to town.”
Celina lived in a section of SoHo that ran to high-end art, trendy restaurants, and tiny one-room boutiques. It was the land of young, well-heeled, well-dressed urbanites who liked to hold intimate, catered brunches on Sunday mornings, voted Liberal Party, and attended esoteric plays they only pretended to understand, much less enjoy.
Street artists were welcome, and coffeehouses were abundant.
Celina’s two-story loft had once been part of a three-story sweatshop that had produced massive amounts of cheap, designer knockoff clothing. It, like other similar buildings in the sector, had been revitalized, rehabbed, and reclaimed by those who could afford the real estate.
From the street, Eve noted the windows were as wide as shuttle ports, and a long, narrow terrace with an ornate iron railing had been added to the third floor.
“You sure you don’t want to call for an appointment?” Peabody asked.
“She ought to know we’re coming.”
Peabody approached the sidewalk-level front entrance beside Eve. “That’s sarcasm, sir.”
“Peabody, you know me too well.” Eve rang the buzzer for Celina’s loft. Moments later, Celina’s voice drifted through the intercom.
“Yes?”
“Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody.”
There was another sound. It might have been a sigh. “Please come up. I’ll release the door and the elevator. Just ask for two.”
The little security light over the door went from red to green. Locks snicked open. Eve stepped inside the entryway, scanned and observed three first-level apartments. To her left, an elevator door opened. They stepped in, requested two.
When the door opened again, Celina stood on the other side of an ironwork gate. Her hair was up today, in some twisty coil that was secured by what looked like a couple of fancy chopsticks.
She wore skin-pants that were cropped a few inches above the ankle and a snug tank that left her midriff bare. She wore no shoes, no facial enhancements, no jewelry.
She opened the gate, stepped back. “I was afraid you’d come. We might as well sit down.”
She gestured behind her to a wide space furnished with a generous S-shaped sofa the color of good red wine. There was an oversized table on each curve, and on one stood a long, shallow bowl filled with what appeared to be rocks. Beside it, a tall pillar candle rose out of a hammered cup.
The floor was the original wood, by Eve’s guess, and had been sanded, sealed—whatever people did with old, original wood—to turn it into a glossy, honey-toned sea. Brightly patterned rugs were scattered over it, as brightly patterned art was scattered over the pale green walls.
Through archways, she spotted the kitchen, a party-sized dining area. There were open-tread, metal steps, painted a deeper green than the walls and boasting a railing that was fashioned to resemble a slim, slithering snake.
“What’s that?” Eve nodded toward the only door, shut and secured.
“My consultant space. It has another entrance. I like the convenience of working at home when I can, but I also value my privacy. I don’t take clients in this part of my house.”
She gestured again, toward the sofa. “Can I get you something to drink? I cancelled my consults today. I don’t think I’d do anyone any good. You caught me in the middle of a yoga session. I’d like some tea myself.”
“No, thanks,” Eve responded.
“I wouldn’t mind. If you’re making it anyway.”
Celina smiled at Peabody. “Have a seat. It won’t take long.”
Rather than sitting, Eve wandered. “You’ve got a big space here.”
“Yes. I need open spaces. I’d go crazy, for instance, in your office. You spoke with Louise?”
“She contacted you?”
“No. But you strike me as a thorough woman. I assume you checked my license, my record, my background, and spoke with Louise before deciding to talk to me again. You’d consider it necessary.”
“Louise said you were the black sheep.”
Celina came out, carrying a tray with a squat white pot and two fragile-looking white cups and saucers. She shot Eve a wry smile. “Yes, that’s accurate. My family disapproves, and is mildly embarrassed not only by my gift but that I choose to make a living from it.”
“You don’t need the money.”
“Not for financial security.” She crossed the room to set the tray on the table. “But for personal satisfaction. In your circumstances, Lieutenant, you hardly need the salary the police department pays you. But I imagine you collect it just the same.”
She poured two cups of tea, passed one to Peabody. “I can’t stop thinking about Elisa. I don’t want to think of her. I don’t want to be part of this. But I have to.”
“The NYPSD may hire and attach, at the primary’s request, expert consultants, civilians.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Celina arched one dark eyebrow. “And did I pass the audition?”
“So far. If you’re willing and able to serve as such on this matter, you’ll be required to sign a contract. The contract will include a gag order, preventing you, by law, from discussing any aspect of the investigation.”
“I’ve no desire to discuss any aspect of the investigation. If I agree to do this, I require you to sign a document ensuring that my name, my association with the investigation, will not be given to the media.”
“So you said before. You’ll be paid a fee—standard rate.” Eve held out a hand to Peabody, waited while Peabody took documents out of her bag. “You’ll want to read these over. You’re free to consult a lawyer or legal representative before signing.”
“You’re giving your word, I’m giving mine. I don’t need a lawyer for that.” But she crossed her legs, settled back, and read each document carefully. “I don’t have a pen.”
Peabody pulled one out, offered it. Celina signed both documents, handed the pen off to Eve.
“Well, that’s that, isn’t it?” Celina let out a breath after Eve scrawled her name on each contract. “That’s that. What do I do?”
“Tell me again exactly what you saw.” Eve laid a recorder on the table. “For the record.”
She went through it again, closing her eyes from time to time as she repeated details. Her hands didn’t shake, and her voice stayed strong and steady, but Eve watched her pale, degree by degree as she recounted the murder.
“And where were you when you saw this happen?”
“Upstairs. In bed. My security was on, all night, as always. I have full alarms, and cameras on all doors. You’re welcome to take the discs into evidence, check them.”
“I will. It covers both of us. Have you had any visions since night before last?”
“No. Just a . . . a sense of dread, and a feeling of anticipation. That could be my own nerves.”
“Peabody? Evidence bag.”
Saying nothing, Peabody took out a length of red corded ribbon, sealed. “Do you recognize this, Ms. Sanchez?”
“Celina.” Even her lips had gone white. “It
looks like what he used on her.”
Eve unsealed the bag, held the ribbon out. “Take it. Tell me what you see.”
“All right.” Celina set down her cup, then rubbed her palms nervously on her thighs. She breathed slowly, then took the ribbon.
She ran it through her fingers, kept her gaze fixed on it. “I don’t . . . nothing comes, nothing clear. Maybe I need time to prepare, maybe I need solitude.” Baffled frustration ran over her face. “I thought . . . I expected more. I was so sure that I’d get something since I had this connection. I know he used this to kill her. They both touched it, but I get nothing.”
Eve took the ribbon, resealed it, handed it back to Peabody. “Why do you think you didn’t see his face that night? You saw hers.”
“I don’t know. My connection must be with the victim. Maybe Elisa didn’t see him clearly.”
“Possible. Maybe you could try again, with the ribbon.”
“I don’t know what difference it would make. Maybe if you left me alone with it,” she began as Peabody took out an evidence bag.
“I can’t do that. Chain of evidence.”
“It doesn’t give off anything. Not for me, in any case.” Still, Celina reached out for it when Eve unsealed the bag.
When her fingers closed over it, her eyes went huge and blind. She dropped it to the floor, as if it had burst into flame. And her hand closed over her own throat as she choked.
While Eve only eyed her narrowly, Peabody sprang up, took Celina firmly by the shoulders and shook. “Snap back!” she ordered.
“Can’t breathe.”
“Yes, you can. It’s not you. Take the air in, let it out. There, in and out again.”
“Okay. Okay.” She let her head fall back, closed her eyes as a single tear slid down her cheek. “Give me a minute.” She kept breathing, kept her eyes shut. “You’re a cold bitch, Dallas.”
“Yeah, I am.”
“Testing me. The first ribbon was a blind, meant nothing. Just a test.”
“Bought it yesterday. Sealed up before I bagged it.”
“Smart. Thorough.” She had her breath back, and her color—and what might have been respect in her eyes. “Well, I suppose if I’d been murdered, I’d want a cold bitch looking for my killer.” Frowning, she looked at the ribbon Eve had picked up off the floor. “I wasn’t prepared. That’s why it hit so hard. I can prepare myself, to an extent anyway.”