by J. D. Robb
She strode forward; they scrambled back. As the doorman pulled open the door for her, he muttered, “Nice work.”
He came in behind her, leaving the two wide-shoulders to deal with any loitering press.
“You’ll want to see the Dysons,” he began. “They’ve asked not to be disturbed.”
“I’m sorry. They’ll have to be.”
“I understand. I’d appreciate it if you’d let me call up first, let them know you’re down here. Give them a couple of minutes to . . . Mother of God.” His eyes filled with tears. “That little girl. I saw her every day. She was a sweetheart. I can’t believe . . . Sorry.”
Eve waited while he pulled out a cloth, mopped at his face.
“You knew her, and the Swisher girl. Nixie.”
“Nixie Pixie.” He balled the cloth in his hand. “I’d call her that sometimes when she came over to visit. Those kids were like sisters. The reports this morning are saying she’s okay. That Nixie, she’s alive.”
She judged him to be six feet, and in fighting trim. “What’s your name?”
“Springer. Kirk Springer.”
“I can’t give you any information right now, Springer. It’s against procedure. You see a lot of people come in and out of here, a lot of people pass on the street. Have you noticed anybody hanging around, maybe a vehicle that was parked in the vicinity that wasn’t familiar?”
“No.” He cleared his throat. “Building’s got security cameras on the entrance. I can get clearance, get you copies of the discs.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“Anything I can do. That kid, she was a sweetheart. Excuse me, I’ll call upstairs.” He paused. “Officer?”
“Lieutenant.”
“Lieutenant. The Dysons, they’re good people. Always got a word for you, you know? Don’t forget you on your birthday or Christmas. So anything I can do.”
“Thank you, Springer.” When he walked away to make the call, Eve said, “Run him.”
“Sir, you don’t think—”
“No, but run him anyway. Get the names of the other doormen, and the security staff, the building manager, the maintenance staff. Run the works.”
“It’s 6-B, Lieutenant.” Springer’s eyes were still teary when he came back. “To the left of the elevator. Mrs. Dyson’s waiting for you. Again, appreciate you dispersing the hounds out there. These people deserve their privacy.”
“No problem. Springer, you think of anything, give me a heads-up at Central.”
When they stepped into the elevator, Peabody read off from her pocket unit. “He’s married, two kids, Upper West Sider. No criminal. Employed here the last nine years.”
“Military or police training?”
“No. But he’d have to have security orientation—personal and building—to rate a gig on a building like this.”
With a nod, Eve stepped off, turned left. The door to 6-B opened before she rang the bell.
Jenny Dyson looked older than she had the day before. Older, pale, with that distant look Eve saw in accident victims struggling between shock and pain.
“Mrs. Dyson, thank you for seeing us.”
“You found him. You found the man who killed my Linnie.”
“No, ma’am. Can we come inside?”
“I thought you’d come to tell us. I thought . . . Yes, come in.” She stepped back, glanced around her own living space as if she didn’t quite recognize it. “My husband, he’s asleep. Sedated. He can’t . . . They were so close, you see. Linnie, she’s Daddy’s girl.” She pressed a hand to her mouth, shook her head.
“Mrs. Dyson, why don’t we sit down?” Peabody took her by the arm, led her to a long sofa done in a striking, in-your-face red.
The room was bold, splashy colors, big shapes. A huge painting that looked to Eve to represent some sort of swollen sunset in shades of searing red and gold and vivid orange dominated the wall behind the sofa.
There was a wall screen and a mood screen, both turned off, tables in sheer and glossy white, and a tall triple window, with its red curtains tightly closed.
In the excited cheer of the room, Jenny Dyson seemed only more pale. More a faded outline of a woman than flesh and blood.
“I haven’t taken anything. The doctor said I could, probably should, but I haven’t.” Her fingers worked as she talked, linking together, pulling apart. “If I did, I wouldn’t feel, would I? What I need to feel. We went to see her.”
“Yes, I know.” Eve sat across from her, in a chair of lively purple.
“The doctor said she wouldn’t have suffered.”
“No. I understand this is a very difficult time—”
“Do you have children?”
“No.”
“I don’t think you can understand, I really don’t.” There was a hint of anger in the tone—the how-dare-you-presume-to-understand. Then it fizzled into dull grief again. “She came from me, from us. And she was so beautiful. Sweet and funny. Happy. We raised such a happy child. But we failed. I failed, you see. I didn’t protect her. I didn’t keep her safe. I’m her mother, and I didn’t keep her safe.”
“Mrs. Dyson.” Sensing a meltdown, Eve spoke sharply. Jenny’s head snapped up. “You’re right, I can’t understand, not really, what you feel, what you’re going through, what you have to face. But I do know this. Are you listening?”
“Yes.”
“This isn’t about what you did or didn’t do to protect Linnie. This isn’t your failure, not in any sense. This was beyond your control, beyond your husband’s, beyond anyone’s but the men who did this thing. They’re responsible, and no one else. And this I do understand, the way you can’t, at least not now. Linnie is ours now, too. We can’t protect her now, but we will serve her. We will stand for her. You have to do the same.”
“What can I do?” Her fingers kept moving. Together, apart. Together, apart.
“You were friends with the Swishers.”
“Yes. Good friends. Yes.”
“Did either of them say anything to you about being worried, even uneasy, as regarded their safety.”
“No. Well, sometimes Keelie and I talked about what a madhouse the city can be. All the precautions you have to take to live here. But there was nothing specific.”
“What about their marriage?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You were friends. Would she have told you if she had a relationship outside of the marriage, of if she suspected her husband did?”
“They—they loved each other. Keelie would never.” Jenny touched a hand to her face—temple, cheek, jaw—as if assuring herself she was still there. “No, Keelie wasn’t interested in anyone else, and she trusted Grant. They were very steady, family-oriented people. Like us. We were friends because we had a lot in common.”
“They both had clients. Any trouble there?”
“There were irritations, of course. Some difficulties. Some people would come to Keelie looking for miracles, or instant gratification. Or they’d sign up with her when they’d have been better off just going to a body sculptor, because they weren’t willing to alter their lifestyle. And Keelie’s philosophy was about health and lifestyle. Grant handled a number of custody cases that weren’t always pleasant.”
“Any threats?”
“No, nothing serious.” She stared beyond Eve to the red wall of curtains. “A client demanding their money back from Keelie, or filing suit because they didn’t get the results they wanted when they were stuffing their faces with soy chips. And Grant would get the sort of outrage or anger lawyers deal with because they’re lawyers. But for the most part, their clients were satisfied. Both of them built a solid base because of referrals and word of mouth. People liked them.”
“Were they ever involved in anything or with anyone illegal? This isn’t about protecting them,” Eve added.
“They believed in doing the right thing, in setting an example for their children. Grant used to joke about his wild college days, and how he’d once been
arrested for possession of some Zoner. How it scared him enough to straighten him out.”
She curled her legs up in a way that told Eve the gesture was habitual, thoughtless. “They didn’t have a strong family base, either of them. It was important to them to make one, and to raise their own children on that base. The closest either of them would have come to doing something against the law was jaywalking or cheering too loudly at one of Coyle’s games.”
“How did you arrange to have Linnie stay the night in their house?”
Jenny shuddered once. She uncurled her legs, sat very straight with her busy fingers twisted tight in her lap. “I . . . I asked Keelie if she’d be able to have Linnie over after school, keep her for the night. A school night. Normally, she didn’t allow sleepovers on school nights. But she was happy to do it, pleased that Matt and I were able to get the suite, have the anniversary celebration.”
“How long ago did you arrange it?”
“Oh, six, seven weeks. We’re not spur-of-the-moment people. But we didn’t tell the girls until the night before, in case something came up. They were so excited. Oh God.” She clutched her belly and began to rock. “Linnie said, she said, it was like a present for her, too.”
“Nixie came here a lot, too.”
“Yes, yes.” She kept rocking. “Play dates, study dates, sleepovers.”
“How would she get here?”
“How?” She blinked. “One of them would bring her, or one of us would pick her up.”
“She and Linnie ever go out by themselves?”
“No.” Her eyes were wet now, and Jenny wiped at them in the same absent way she’d curled her legs up on the cushion. “Linnie would complain sometimes because a lot of her schoolmates were allowed to go to the park by themselves, or to the vids or arcades. But Matt and I felt she was too young to be on her own.”
“The Swishers, with Nixie?”
“The same. We had a lot in common.”
“With Coyle?”
“He was older, and a boy. I know that’s sexist, but it’s the way it is. They kept a tight rein on him, but he could go out with his friends, on his own, as long as they knew where. And he had to carry a pocket ’link so they could check on him.”
“Did he ever get in any trouble?”
“He was a good kid.” Her lips trembled. “A very good kid. His biggest rebellion, that I know of, was sneaking junk food, and Keelie knew about it anyway. He was sports mad, and if he screwed up, they’d limit his activities. Coyle wouldn’t risk not being able to play ball.”
When Eve sat back, Peabody touched Jenny on the arm. “Is there someone we can call for you? Someone you want to be here with you?”
“My mother’s coming. I told her not to, but then I called her back. My mother’s coming.”
“Mrs. Dyson, we’re going to need to talk about arrangements for Nixie.”
“Nixie?”
“You and your husband are her legal guardians.”
“Yes.” She pushed a hand through her hair. “We—they wanted to make sure Nixie and Coyle had . . . I can’t, I can’t think—” She shot off the sofa when her husband came down the curve of the stairs like a ghost.
His body swayed; his face was slack with drugs. He wore only a pair of white boxers. “Jenny?”
“Yes, baby, right here.” She dashed toward the stairs to enfold him.
“I had a dream, a terrible dream. Linnie.”
“Shh. Shh.” She stroked his hair, his back, staring over his shoulder at Eve as he bowed his body to hers. “I can’t. I can’t. Please, can’t you go now? Can you go?”
7
MARRIAGE, TO EVE’S MIND, WAS A KIND OF OBSTACLE course. You had to learn when to jump over, when to belly under, and when to stop your forward motion and change direction.
She had work, and at the moment would have preferred that forward motion. But figured when you dumped a strange kid on a spouse, you should at least give him a heads-up when it looked like the stay might be extended.
She took five minutes personal—as personal as she could manage on a pocket ’link while standing on the sidewalk.
She was surprised he answered himself, and guilty when she caught the flicker of annoyance in his eyes at the interruption.
“Sorry, I can get back to you later.”
“No, I’m between—but just. Is there a problem?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Just a gut thing, and I thought I should let you know the kid might be around a little longer than I expected.”
“I told you she’s welcome as long as . . .” He glanced away from the screen, and she saw him raise a hand. “Give me a minute here, Caro.”
“Look, this can wait.”
“Finish it out. Why do you think she won’t be with the Dysons in the next day or so?”
“They’re in bad shape, and my timing didn’t help. Mostly, it’s a gut feeling. I’m thinking about contacting the—what is she—the grandmother?—when I find a minute. And there’s a stepsister, his side, somewhere. Just a backup. Maybe a temporary deal until the Dysons are . . . better equipped or whatever.”
“That’s fine, but meanwhile she’s all right where she is.” He frowned. “You’re thinking it might be considerable time before they’re able to take her. Weeks?”
“Maybe. Family member should take the interim. I could bring CPS in, but I don’t want to. Not if I can avoid it. Maybe I didn’t read the Dysons right, but I figured you should know the kid might be around longer than we thought.”
“We’ll deal with it.”
“Okay. Sorry to hold you up.”
“No problem. I’ll see you at home.”
But when he clicked off, he continued to frown. He thought of the child in his home, and the dead ones. He had half a dozen people waiting for a meeting, and decided they could wait a few moments. What good was power if you didn’t flex its muscles now and again?
He called up Eve’s file on the Swishers from her home unit, and scanned the names of the family connections.
They started knocking on doors, working their way east then west from the Swisher home. A lot of doors remained unopened, people in the workforce. But those that did open shed no light.
Saw nothing. Terrible thing. Tragedy. Heard nothing. That poor family. Know nothing.
“What are you seeing, Peabody?”
“A lot of shock, dismay—the underlying relief it wasn’t them. And a good dose of fear.”
“All that. And what are these people telling us about the victims?”
“Nice family, friendly. Well-behaved children.”
“Not our usual run, is it? It’s like stepping into another dimension where people bake cookies and pass them out to strangers on the street.”
“I could use a cookie.”
Eve walked up to the next building, listed in her notes as a multi-family. “Then there’s the neighborhood. Families, double incomes primarily. People like that are going to be beddy-bye at two in the morning, weekday.”
She took another moment to look up and down the street. Even in the middle of the day, the traffic was pretty light. At two in the morning, she imagined the street was quiet as a grave.
“Maybe you catch a break and somebody’s got insomnia and looks out the window at just the right time. Or decided to take a little stroll. But they’re going to tell the cops, if they spotted anything. A family gets wiped out on your block, you’re scared. You want to feel safe, you tell the cops if you saw anything off.”
She rang the bell. There was a scratching sound from the intercom as someone inside cleared their throat.
“Who are you?”
“NYPSD.” Eve held her badge to the security peep. “Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody.”
“How do I know that for sure?”
“Ma’am, you’re looking at my badge.”
“I could have a badge, too, and I’m not the police.”
“Got me there. Can you see the badge number?”
“I’m n
ot blind, am I?”
“As I’m standing out here, that’s impossible to verify. But you can verify my ID if you contact Cop Central and give them my badge number.”
“Maybe you stole the badge from the real police. People get murdered in their own beds.”
“Yes, ma’am, that’s why we’re here. We’d like to speak with you about the Swishers.”
“How do I know you’re not the ones who killed them?”
“Excuse me?”
Eve, her face a study in frustration, turned to look at the woman on the sidewalk. She was carrying a market sack and wearing a great deal of gold-streaked red hair, a green skin-suit, and a baggy jacket.
“You’re trying to talk to Mrs. Grentz?”
“Trying being the operative. Police.”
“Yeah, got that.” She bounced up the stairs. “Hey, Mrs. Grentz, it’s Hildy. I got your bagels.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
There was a lot of clicking and snicking, then the door opened. Eve looked down, considerably. The woman was barely five feet, skinny as a stick, and old as time. On her head was perched an ill-fitting black wig only shades darker than her wrinkled skin.
“I brought the cops, too,” Hildy told her, cheerfully.
“Are you arrested?”
“No, they just want to talk. About what happened with the Swishers.”
“All right then.” She waved a hand like she was batting at flies and began to walk away.
“My landlady,” Hildy told them. “I live below. She’s okay, except for being—as my old man would say—crazy as a shithouse rat. You ought to go on in and sit down while she’s in the mood. I’m going to stick her bagels away.”
“Thanks.”
The place was jammed with things. Pricey things, Eve noted as she made her way between tables, chairs, lamps, paintings that were tilted and stacked against the walls.
The air had that old-lady smell, what seemed to be a combination of powder, age, and flowers going to dust.
Mrs. Grentz was now perched in a chair, her tiny feet on a tiny hassock and her arms crossed over her nonexistent breasts. “Whole family, murdered in their sleep.”
“You knew the Swishers?”
“Of course I knew the Swishers. Lived here the past eighty-eight years, haven’t I? Seen it all, heard it all.”