by J. D. Robb
“He would be very proud of you.” Mira reached for her own bag, took a tissue from it. “Very proud that you did just what he taught you, even when you were scared.”
“I wanted to tell him, to tell him and Mom. I wanted Mom. But they were dead.”
“You saw the man again, and someone else,” Eve prompted, “when you went upstairs. You went up the back way.”
“The man who killed Inga was going into Coyle’s room.”
“How do you know? Nixie, how do you know it was the man from Inga’s room who went into Coyle’s?”
“Because . . .” She looked up again, blinking against the tears. “The light. The green light. The other didn’t have one.”
“Okay. What else was different?”
“The one who killed Inga was bigger.”
“Taller?”
“A little bit, but bigger.” She flexed her arms, indicating muscle.
“Did they talk to each other?”
“They didn’t say anything. They didn’t make any noise. I couldn’t hear anything. I wanted Mom.”
Her eyes went dull again, and a tremor shook her voice. “I knew what they were going to do and I wanted Mom and Dad, but . . . And there was blood, and it got on me. I hid in the bathroom, and I didn’t come out. I heard people come in, but I didn’t come out. You came.”
“Okay. Do you remember, before any of this happened, if your parents said anything about being concerned, about anybody who was mad at them, or if they’d seen somebody hanging around who shouldn’t be?”
“Dad said Dave said he was going to beat him unconscious with his nine iron because he won the golf game.”
“Did they fight a lot, your dad and Dave?”
“Nuh-uh, not for real.” She knuckled her eyes. “Just ripping.”
“Was there anybody he did fight with? Not just ripping?”
“No. I don’t know.”
“Or your mom?” When Nixie shook her head, Eve eased into a dicey area. “Did your mom and dad fight, with each other?”
“Sometimes, but not like bad. Gemmie’s mom and dad used to yell at each other all the time, and Gemmie said they threw things. And they got divorced because her dad couldn’t keep his pants zipped. That means he screwed around.”
“Got that. But your parents didn’t fight like that.”
“They didn’t, and they didn’t screw around either. They danced on the beach.”
“Sorry?”
“In the summer, when we went to the beach and got the house. Sometimes they went out to walk at night, and I could see them from my window. They’d dance on the beach. They weren’t going to get divorced.”
“It’s good to have a memory like that,” Mira said. “When you start to feel too sad, or scared, you can try to see them dancing on the beach. You did very well. I’d like to come back and talk to you again some time.”
“I guess it’s okay. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”
“I think you should have some lunch. I have to go soon, but Lieutenant Dallas will be here, working upstairs in her office. Do you know where the kitchen is?”
“No, the house is too big.”
“Tell me about it,” Eve muttered.
Mira rose, held out a hand. “I’ll take you back, and maybe you can help Summerset for a little while. I’ll be back in a minute,” she said to Eve.
Alone, Eve paced to the windows, to the fireplace, back to the windows. She wanted to get to it, start the process. She needed to set up her board, do the runs, write her report and file it. Calls to make, people to see, she thought, jingling loose credits in her pocket.
Shit, how was she going to deal with this kid?
She wondered if the cops who’d had to interview her all those years ago had been equally unsure of their footing.
“She’s coping very well.” Mira came back into the room. “Better than most would. But you should expect mood swings, tears, anger, difficulty sleeping. She’s going to require counseling.”
“Can you handle that?”
“For the moment, and we’ll see how it goes. She may require a specialist, someone trained primarily in children. I’ll look into it.”
“Thanks. I was thinking I should check the department, Youth Services, find a couple of officers who I can assign to her.”
“Take it slow. She’s dealing with a lot of strangers at once.” She touched Eve’s arm, then picked up her bag. “You’ll handle it.”
Maybe, Eve thought when Mira left. Hopefully. But at the moment, she had plenty of doubts. She headed upstairs, detoured into Roarke’s office.
He was at his desk, with three of his wall screens scrolling various data, and his desk unit humming. “Pause operations,” he said, and smiled. “Lieutenant, you look beat up.”
“Feel that way. Listen, I didn’t have a chance to really run all this by you. I know I just more or less dumped some strange kid on you and blew.”
“Is she awake?”
“Yeah. She’s with Summerset. I did a second interview with her, with Mira in attendance. She holds up pretty well. The kid, I mean.”
“I’ve had the news on. The names haven’t been released yet.”
“I’ve got that blocked—for the moment. It’s going to break soon.”
Knowing his wife, he went to the AutoChef, programmed two coffees, black. “Why don’t you run it for me now?”
“Quick version, because I’m behind.”
She gave him the details, brief and stark.
“Poor child. No evidence, as yet, that anyone in the household was into something that could bring down this kind of payback?”
“Not yet. But it’s early.”
“Professional, as I’m sure you’ve already concluded. Someone trained in wet work. The green light she saw was most likely the jammer—green for go—as the security had been bypassed.”
“Figured. On the surface, these people seem ordinary, ordinary family. Straight arrows. But we haven’t done much scratching on that surface yet.”
“Sophisticated electronics, special forces–type invasion, quick, clean hits.” Sipping coffee, he ignored the beep of his laser fax. “In and out . . . in, what, ten or fifteen minutes? It’s not something for nothing. Home terrorism would have left a mark, and the targets would have been higher profile. On the surface,” he added.
“You still have some contacts in organized crime.”
A smile ghosted around his mouth. “Do I?”
“You know people who know people who know scum of the earth.”
He tapped a fingertip on the dent in her chin. “Is that any way to talk of my friends and business associates? Former.”
“Damn straight. You could make some inquiries.”
“I can, and I will. But I can tell you I never associated with child killers. Or anyone who would slaughter a family in their sleep.”
“Not saying. I mean that. But I need every angle on this. The little girl? The one he killed in place of the kid downstairs? She was wearing a little pink nightgown with—what do you call it—frills around the neck. I could see it was pink from the bottom. The rest was red, soaked through with blood. He’d slit her throat open like it was an apple.”
He set his coffee down, walked to her. He put his hands on her hips, laid his brow on her brow. “Anything I can do, I will.”
“It makes you think. You and me, we had the worst most kids can get. Abuse, neglect, rape, beatings, hate. These kids, they had what it’s supposed to be, in a perfect world: nice homes, parents who loved them, took care of them.”
“We survived,” he finished. “They didn’t. Except for the one downstairs.”
“One day, when she looks back on this, I want her to know the people who did this are in a cage. That’s the best I can do. That’s all I can do.”
She eased back. “So, I’d better get to work.”
4
HER FIRST STEP WAS CONTACTING FEENEY, CAPTAIN of the Electronic Detectives Division. He popped on he
r ’link screen, wiry ginger hair threaded with silver, saggy face, rumpled shirt.
It was a relief to her that his wife’s recent attempt to spruce him up with eye-popping suits had gone belly-up.
“I’m catching up,” she said briskly. “You got word on the Swisher case, home invasion?”
“Two kids.” His face, comfortably morose, hardened. “When I got wind, I went to the scene myself. I got a team working on the ’links and data centers. I’m doing the security personally.”
“I like getting the best. What can you tell me?”
“Good, solid home system. Top of the line. Took some know-how to bypass. Camera shows squat after one hundred fifty-eight hours. Remote jammer, with secondary jam as the system had an auto backup.”
He tugged on his earlobe as he read data from another screen. “Visual security shuts down, backup pops within ten seconds, with alarms both in-house and at security center. Compromised the works.”
“They knew the system.”
“Oh yeah, they knew the system. Deactivated camera alarm, lock alarm, motion alarm. I’m going to pin it for you, but my prelim indicated entrance ten minutes after the camera blanked, four minutes after the secondary jam.”
“Ten minutes? That’s a stretch of time. Might’ve held, insurance the system didn’t make the signal, in-house, to the security company. Four after hitting the secondary. Is that as slick as I think it is?”
“Slick enough. They worked fast.”
“Did they know the code?”
“Can’t tell you that yet.” He lifted a mug to his lips that had MINE printed on it in murderous red. “Either knew it or had a first-class code breaker. Couple of kids not safe in their own bed, Dallas, it’s a fucked-up world.”
“It’s always been a fucked-up world. I’m going to need all the transmissions, in and out, personal and household. All security discs.”
“You’ll have them. I’m putting weight on this one. Got grandchildren that age, for Chrissake. Whatever you need on this one, you got it.”
“Thanks.” Her eyes narrowed as he sipped again. “That real coffee?”
He blinked, eased the mug out of sight. “Why?”
“Because I can see it on your face. I can see it in your eyes.”
“What if it is?”
“Where’d you get it?”
He shifted. Even with her screen view she could tell he squirmed. “Maybe I swung by your office, to update you, and you weren’t there. And maybe since you’ve got a damn unlimited supply of the stuff I got myself one lousy mug. Don’t see why you have to be so stingy when you’ve—”
“You help yourself to anything else while you were there? Such as candy?”
“What candy? You got candy in there? What kind?”
“That’s for me to know, and you to keep your hands off. I’ll get back to you.”
Thinking of coffee and candy reminded her she’d missed breakfast and lunch. She ordered up data on Grant Swisher, then strode into her office kitchen to grab a nutribar and another hit of caffeine.
Settling, she ordered the data on wall screen, and scanned.
Swisher, Grant Edward, DOB March 2, 2019. Residence 310 West Eighty-first, New York City, September 22, 2051 to present. Married Getz, Keelie Rose, May 6, 2046. Two children of the marriage: Coyle Edward, DOB August 15, 2047, male. Nixie Fran, DOB February 21, 2050, female.
Three of those names would be listed as deceased by end of the day in Vital Records, she thought.
She read through the basic data, requested any and all criminal records, and got a pop for possession of Zoner when Grant Swisher had been nineteen. Medical was just as ordinary.
She dug into finances.
He did well. Family law paid enough to handle the mortgage on the house, a time share place in the Hamptons, private schools for both kids. With the wife’s income factored in, you had a cozy buffer for a live-in domestic, family vacations, restaurants, and other recreational activities—including a hefty golf tab—and enough left over for a reasonable savings or emergency account.
Nothing over the top, she mused. Nothing, from the looks of it, under the table.
Keelie Swisher, two years younger than her husband, no criminal, standard medical, had a master’s degree in Nutrition and Health. She’d put it to use, prior to children, with a position on staff at a high-end city spa. After the first kid, she’d done the professional mother gig for a year, then gone back to the same employment. Repeated the routine with kid number two, but instead of going back as an employee, she’d opened her own business.
Living Well, Eve mused. Didn’t sound much like Nutrition, but it must have worked. She tracked the business, shaky first year, middling second. But by the third year, Keelie Swisher had developed a solid clientele, and was cruising.
She ran the boy. No criminal, no flag for sealed juvenile records. No flags on the medical to indicate violence or abuse—though there were some bumps, some breaks. Sports related, according to the medicals. And it fit.
He had his own bank account with his parents listed on it. She pursed her lips over the regular monthly deposits, but the amounts weren’t enough to arrow toward illegals sales or criminal profits.
She found the same pattern, with smaller amounts, in Nixie’s account.
She was pondering it when Peabody came in carrying a white bag, stained with grease and smelling like glory. “Picked up a couple of gyros. Ate mine, so if you don’t want yours, I’ll be happy to take it off your hands.”
“I want it, and nobody should eat two gyros.”
“Hey, I lost five pounds when I was on medical. Okay, I put three back on, but that’s still two by anybody’s math.” She dropped the bag on Eve’s desk. “Where’s Nixie?”
“Summerset.” Eve dumped the nutribar she’d yet to open in her desk drawer and pulled out the gyro. She took a huge bite and mumbled something that sounded like “Slool ressa.”
“Got the school records on both.” Translating, Peabody pulled out two discs. “Their school officials were pretty broken up when I notified. Nice schools. Coyle did well, no suspicious dips in grades or attendance. And Nixie? That kid’s a blade. Aces all the way. Both scored high on IQ tests, but she’s a level up from her brother, and makes the most of it. No disciplinary problems on either. A couple of warnings about talking in class or sneaking game vids, but no major. Coyle played softball and basketball. Nixie’s into school plays, does the school media flash, school band—plays the piccolo.”
“What the hell is that?”
“It’s a wind instrument. Kinda like a flute. These kids have a lot of extracurricular, good grades. Didn’t have time to get in trouble, from my view.”
“They both have their own bank accounts, and make regular monthly deposits. Where do kids get up to a hundred bucks a month?”
Peabody turned to the wall screen, scanned the data. “Allowance.”
“Allowance for what?”
She looked back, shook her head at Eve. “Their parents probably gave them a weekly allowance, spending money, saving money, that sort of thing.”
Eve swallowed more gyro. “They get paid for being a kid?”
“More or less.”
“Nice work if you can get it.”
“Household like that, the way this is shaping up, the kids probably had regular chores, even with a full-time domestic. Keeping their rooms clean, clearing the table, loading the recycler. Then you got your birthday or holiday money, your school report money. Being a Free-Ager, we did bartering more than pay, but it comes to the same.”
“So if everybody stayed a kid, nobody’d have to get a job. They could have seen something at school,” she continued before Peabody could comment. “Heard something. Something off. We’ll take a look at teachers and staff. We can run the adults’ business associates and clients, fan out from there to friends, neighbors, social acquaintances. These people weren’t picked out of a hat.”
“Doesn’t feel like it, but can we discount st
raight urban terrorism?”
“It’s too clean.” Roarke had it right on that one, she thought. “You want to terrorize, you’re messy. Kill the family, rape and torture first, wreck the house, slice up their little dog.”
“They didn’t have a little dog, but I get you. And if it was terrorism, some whacked-out group would be taking credit by now. Did we get any reports in? EDD, sweepers, ME?”
“I talked to Feeney. He’s on it. Fill you in on the way.”
“To?”
“Morgue, then Central.” She rose, stuffing the last of the gyro in her mouth.
“Want me to let Summerset know we’re leaving?”
“Why? Oh. Hell. Yeah, do that.” She crossed to the door joining her office with Roarke’s. “Hey.”
He was rising from his desk, slipping on one of his dark suit jackets.
“I’m heading out,” she told him.
“So am I. I’ve rearranged a few things. Should be back no later than seven.”
“I don’t know when.” She leaned against the jamb, frowning at him. “I should put the kid in a safe house.”
“This house is safe, and she’s fine with Summerset. A more detailed media bulletin’s come through. It doesn’t list the names, as yet, but reports on an Upper West Side family, including two children, killed early this morning, in their home. Lists you as primary. Details to follow.”
“I’ll have to deal with that.”
“And so you will.” He came to her, cupped her face, kissed her. “You’ll do your job, and we’ll figure out the rest. Take care of my cop.”
As she’d expected, the chief medical examiner had taken charge of the Swisher homicides. It wasn’t the sort of detail Morris would pass to someone else, however qualified or skilled.
Eve found him, suited up, over the body of Linnie Dyson.
“I’ve taken them in order of death.” Behind his microgoggles his dark eyes were cool and hard.
There was music playing. Morris rarely worked without it, but this was somber, funereal. One of those composers, she imagined, who’d worn white wigs.