Echoes in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “She doesn’t fit as a part of the attacks. She’s just part of the puzzle. From important New York doctor’s wife to sheep in Australia. That says to me, she got as far away from him and the life she had here as she could.”

  “You think he abused her as well.”

  “It would fit,” Eve said, then shrugged. “She got out, and I can’t see her in this. Any more on his financials?”

  “He has considerable art insured. Perhaps that’s included in what he’s designated to his widow. Upward of eight million there, and the jewelry, which is now missing, about the same. He has a luxury vehicle—with a lien, again about half its worth—and pays a garage fee.”

  Roarke wandered over, selected a bottle of wine. “I’m in the mood for a glass. You?”

  Eve glanced at her board, at the snow. “Yeah. Might as well.”

  “There’s nothing in his finances to indicate affair. No jewelry purchases, for instance, not listed under his insurance, no odd trips or hotel expenses, no secondary residence where one might keep or entertain a sidepiece.”

  “No hidden accounts?”

  “None. All quite aboveboard and, as I said, boring.” He poured two glasses, brought Eve one. “He lived well within his means. In fact, he could have afforded to live more lavishly. I’d say he spent considerably on wardrobe—his and hers.”

  “Appearances were important.”

  “Agreed. The house, the car, the furnishings, the art—all on the flashier side. Aside from that, he strikes as a bit of a miser. He liked having the numbers rather than the things. Two vacations per year, as a couple. Like clockwork. Two additional trips for him—golf trips that appear to check out. Relatively short jaunts. Two days at most, as were any professional trips for medical conferences or lectures. Never more than two days away from home without his wife. And occasionally she joined him on those as well.”

  “Didn’t want her on her own for long. Not discounting your particular skill, wouldn’t it be relatively easy for a decent e-man to get the information you just got?”

  “Ridiculously simple.”

  Thinking, she swiveled side to side in her chair. “So the killer knew there’d be jewelry and cash in the house, which gave him the cover for the attacks—the excuse. The purpose remains the rape and beatings. He’d just as likely know when the house would have been empty, but that’s not the way he wanted it.”

  She turned to Roarke. “How long would it take you to get the guest list from the Celebrate Art Gala last April?”

  “About as long as it took me to select, open, and pour this wine.” He gave her a playful poke. “How about finding something more interesting for me to play with?”

  “Get me that data, and I will.”

  “I’ll do that. And since we have a long, snowy night ahead of us, how about we have dinner somewhere other than your office?”

  “I can agree to that.”

  “Give me a couple minutes.” He tapped his glass to hers, strolled back into his office.

  13

  It didn’t take him much longer to stroll back out.

  “The list is on your comp,” he told her.

  “Great. Maybe you’d find it interesting to split the list with me, cull out married couples—first requirement. Married couples in the upper-class strata—second requirement. Married couples with no children—at least, none living at home. Married couples where the wife is a serious looker. And last, single-family residence. He doesn’t do apartment buildings or duplexes. Not yet anyway.”

  “I can follow that. Have you considered same-sex couples? It isn’t pattern, as yet, but isn’t it possible he’d target a beautiful woman whatever her orientation?”

  She jabbed a finger at him. “Damn good point. I’d put that as a lower probability because I think it’s a mom-and-dad deal, but it’s definitely a possibility. So … don’t discriminate.”

  “What does the sign say in your bullpen? ‘No matter your race, creed, sexual orientation, or political affiliation, we protect and serve. Because you could get dead.’”

  “Even if you were an asshole. We added an addendum.”

  On a half laugh, he jabbed a finger back at her. “Well done.”

  “Okay. So all of that, just pushing the married and the money. And the looks.”

  “I believe I’ll work in here with you, on your auxiliary. That way we can coordinate more easily.”

  “Pull up a chair. You start at the top, I’ll start at the bottom.”

  “You should know there are more than eighteen hundred names.” And considering, he tugged off his tie, shrugged out of his jacket.

  She huffed out a breath. “They won’t all be married. We’ll backtrack for legal cohabs, put them in another lane. But we’re starting with married.”

  Nodding, he rolled up his shirtsleeves. “You should know Mavis and Leonardo are on here, as are the Miras.”

  Her sister, she thought. Mavis Freestone stood as her sister in everything but blood. “Mavis lives in an apartment building, and has a kid. Mira’s a looker, but she’s not his type—so far. She’s older than any of his vics thus far. I think he’ll stick to pattern.”

  It wasn’t a fast job, and it was mindless, which wasn’t always an advantage. Eve worked split screen, the list on one side as she did quick runs on the names, making a note when she hit one that fit all requirements.

  She slogged through a hundred, switched back to coffee.

  They worked in near silence, even when Galahad gave up the sleep chair to leap into Roarke’s lap, curl there.

  At the halfway point, Roarke sat back. “Let’s take that dinner break before our brains melt.”

  “What?” She looked up, distracted, then realized a low-grade headache had already started to brew. A short break wouldn’t hurt as she couldn’t do anything about whatever she put together tonight anyway.

  “Sure. Yeah. Good. But maybe—”

  He watched her eyes shift to the table by the terrace doors. “A deal’s a deal, Lieutenant.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You want to eat down in the dining room?”

  “I had something else in mind.” He got up, took her hand, and pulled her to her feet before she found some excuse. He glanced at the cat as he drew Eve to the elevator. “It’s a table for two tonight, my friend. You’ll find your dinner down in the kitchen.”

  He tugged her into the elevator, kissed her between the eyes—where he’d already diagnosed that low-grade headache. “Roof terrace,” he ordered.

  “Going fancy?”

  “I expect the view will be.”

  As usual, he was right.

  It was like being in a reverse snow globe, Eve thought. Outside the glass dome, in the streams of the exterior lights, the snow fell fast, as if shaken from the sky by an angry hand. Winter winds swirled and tossed it into dramatic sweeps, and through the sweeps, the lights of the city gleamed and sparked. The great park spread in a study of black and white. The streets rayed in stark lines, empty of traffic with only a scatter of emergency vehicles trudging through the thick carpet of snow.

  He lit candles on a table already set for two with silver warmers over the plates.

  “How’d you manage this?”

  “I gave Summerset an ETA.” He poured rich red wine for both, took her hand so they looked out the wide glass together. “We’re lucky, you and I. To be up here, warm and safe, without the worry of keeping that way. I remember being neither as a boy in Dublin when winter hit hard.”

  “I don’t think I ever actually felt the snow until I was maybe nine or ten. Even then I sort of remember thinking: It’s cold and wet. What’s everybody so excited about? But from up here it looks pretty spectacular. Nice choice for dinner, ace. Very nice.”

  “Let’s see what you think of the meal.”

  He lifted the warming lids. Some sort of pasta deal, she noted, which was never wrong in her book. Not spaghetti, but the tube things in sauce with cheese melted all over it.

  And the smell added more w
armth and some spice to the air.

  Reminded her stomach it wanted food.

  “Looks great. What is it?”

  “Baked penne, I believe.” No point in mentioning the spinach.

  They ate it with a colorful little salad, a baguette to be torn apart and dipped into herbed oil. And more wine.

  “Whatever it is,” Eve said between bites, “it’s pretty good. You snuck spinach in it.”

  “I didn’t personally prepare it,” he reminded her.

  “Ha. Still, it works. Will you keep your HQ shut down tomorrow?”

  “I’ve advised anyone who isn’t essential to work from home, arranged for some to house on-site tonight. If you need to go into Central or into the field, take one of the all-terrains. Your vehicle can likely handle this, but you’ll be better off in an A-T.”

  “Yeah. I might end up doing some of the interviews from here by ’link, possibly holo. I want a face-to-face with the bartender, so I may push for that, and I want another with Daphne. The more she sees me, I think, the more she’ll open up. Anyway, I’ll need to get into Central at some point. I’m the boss.”

  “That you are.”

  “You, too. You’ll take an A-T?”

  “I will.”

  “How many do we have?”

  “More than enough,” he said, and smiled. “How many couples have you noted out of your portion of the list?”

  “Six that meet all. That’s out of nearly two hundred and fifty people. A couple more that skim the margins. How about you?”

  “Nine, that’s out of about three hundred. So we’ve made some progress.”

  She told herself it didn’t matter he’d cleared through more than she had. It wasn’t a competition. Exactly. “So that’s fifteen, plus two marginal. Even if we triple that before we’re finished, it’s a workable number.”

  “And how will you work it?”

  “Talk to all of them. Cross-check any who use the caterer, have used the hospital, the rental company. Even any who socialize with any of the other vics. Look for a connection, put them on alert. Maybe one of them has had an incident—something. A thwarted break-in, an altercation, or the female will have had an encounter with someone who made her uncomfortable. I think the Patricks were the first, but that doesn’t mean this guy hasn’t practiced. Maybe he did the Peeping Tom deal, or broke into a house or two, stole a cocktail dress. Maybe he just got pushy with a female. Something.”

  She shrugged. “It’s fishing.”

  “You tend to catch what you fish for. One of my nine is a same-sex couple.”

  “One of mine, too. I might have dismissed that.”

  “I doubt it, once you dug in.” Lifting his wine, Roarke studied her over the rim. “You realize we fit his pattern, you and I.”

  Eve shook her head. “I’m not his type. He goes for the killer looks, leaning or nailing glam.”

  When Roarke raised his eyebrows, she shook her head again, ate more pasta. “You’ve got a blind spot.”

  “I’d say the blind spot is yours. In any case, he’d never—however skilled—get through the security.”

  “Jamie Lingstrom did once,” Eve reminded him. “A teenage kid.”

  “A remarkably talented kid,” Roarke added, thinking of Feeney’s godchild. “And he didn’t get through, as the alarms alerted us, and we dragged his talented young ass inside. Plus I’ve added to security since—and asked Jamie to try to circumvent it.”

  “I didn’t know you had him try another break-in.”

  “Because it failed. Twice. He’s determined to conquer it. If and when he does, I’ll use that to add more layers.” Reading her face, he sat back with his wine. “I didn’t mention us and the pattern to give you ideas about being bait. It wouldn’t work for one thing. He’d be stupid to try for a cop, especially you. Or to try to get into this house. I expect he’s too careful for that sort of challenge.”

  “He’s too much of a coward,” Eve corrected. “But a trap … not us, not here. If he considered trying for us, he’d want weeks of planning—and he’d want Summerset out. When does Summerset go on his winter vacation deal?”

  “I thought it was marked with glittering stars and dancing fairies on your calendar. Soon.”

  “Just wouldn’t work. But if I can refine the list, try to suss out who he might be targeting, I might be able to talk a couple into letting us bait the hook. Gonna think about that.”

  “Let’s think about that later, top off our wine, and drink it on the sofa there, watching the snow fall. That’s a fine way to round out the dinner break.”

  “Can’t argue with it.”

  She settled down with him, actually put her feet on the table in front of them.

  “I believe you’re relaxing, Lieutenant.”

  “For a minute.” Since she was, she leaned into him. “It’s taken me a while.”

  “To?”

  “To get used to being here, living here, having this. You built it all over years. I dropped into it. It’s taken a while to adjust. To relax. I wonder if it was the same with Daphne. She comes from solid middle—edging toward upper middle—class, had a job, and was building it into a career. Rich doctor comes along, pays attention. I imagine he was charming at the start of it all. She’s dazzled. Big, important house, probably fancy dates, expensive gifts, and I’ll bet on a romantic proposal. The whole swooping off the feet.”

  “Sweeping.”

  “Nobody in their right mind sweeps feet.”

  “But they’d swoop feet?”

  He had her there. “Anyway, she’s dazzled, swooped and swept and married inside a few months.”

  Amused, he tapped the diamond she wore on a chain around her neck when she tugged it out from under her shirt. “I worked up to giving you expensive gifts.”

  “You sent me coffee, real coffee, right off. Nailed that in one.”

  “I did, yes. And still, I don’t believe you were ever dazzled, swooped, or swept.”

  “More appalled, I guess, but I got over it.” As they sat, shoulder to shoulder, the snow and the city it fell on providing a breathtaking view, she turned her head to look at him.

  Another breathtaking view, she thought.

  “I might’ve been slightly swooped.”

  “And I, darling Eve, a bit appalled—a cop, after all—but completely swept.”

  She gave him a little shoulder bump. “But the thing? You and me? Experienced cynics and ass-kickers. Daphne’s young, relatively inexperienced, has—by all accounts—a soft sort of nature. He plays on that, chips away at her self-esteem, begins to limit her activities and interests, starts distancing her from friends and family. It’s how it works.”

  “Claims to cherish,” Roarke said, “even as he diminishes.”

  “You got it. He probably didn’t seriously smack her around until he’d accomplished most of that. Then he’d apologize, lost his temper. Forgive me. But—here’s a key—but you, little lady, did, said something or behaved in such a way to make me lose control. So it turns, it becomes her fault he clocked her.”

  She sipped more wine. “It really doesn’t have anything to do with the case.”

  “It has to do with those echoes you spoke of. Did he apologize when he first hit you?”

  She didn’t have to ask who. Richard Troy. And, yes, the echoes grew louder, grew longer with every step she took into the investigation.

  “I honestly don’t remember the first time he hit me. Couldn’t say whether it’s buried or blurred, or if I was just too young to retain it. But I remember how he sometimes brought me something, some toy. He’d say things like I had to be good, had to do as I was told—always—so he wouldn’t have to punish me. Then he’d take it away or break it because—he said—I’d done something wrong.”

  Idly, Eve rubbed a hand on Roarke’s leg. “Did Patrick Roarke do that with you?”

  “He didn’t, no. No toys or rewards. Neglect was his style, followed by beatings. Perhaps a grunt of approval now and then on a day
I’d had particularly good luck with picking pockets or lifting locks. It’s crueler, I think, the reward and punish than the neglect. What sort of toys did he bring you?”

  “The only one I clearly remember, probably because I really liked it, was this little music box thing with this ballet girl inside who’d twirl around when you opened it. Sometimes if I couldn’t sleep, I’d open it up, listen to it, watch the girl. Sort of, I guess, imagine being happy enough to twirl around. And one night he came in, raging, busted it to pieces, whaled on me pretty good.”

  And because he could see it so well, the young, trapped girl dreaming, then brutalized, it broke his heart. Simply shattered it.

  Eve drank again. “Reward and punish. Praise and denigrate. It’s how it works. Daphne’s not a child, but she’s got that softness so she’d have been a pretty easy mark. She’s not me, but I understand her. And I should get back to her.”

  “Another minute,” he replied gently.

  Because she’d made him sad, Eve realized. Because she’d put the image of that scared and helpless little girl in his mind.

  So she leaned in a little more. “We got an early enough start on things, so maybe if we plow through it, we can watch a vid. I feel like something fun, where the good guys and bad guys are over the top, and lots of things blow up.”

  “I think it’s time to introduce you to The Avengers.”

  “Who are they? What are they avenging?”

  “Your vid and graphic novel education is pitiful, darling. They’re classics.” Smiling, he turned his head to brush his lips to hers.

  “Classic what?”

  “Superheroes who band together to save the world.”

  “Do they kick ass doing it?”

  “Is there any other way?”

  Now she smiled. “I’m in for that.” And kissed him back.

  Decided she could absolutely take a minute—or two—and added some punch to the kiss.

  He set his wine aside so he could slide his arms around her.

  No sadness, she thought, no harsh images. Now only heat and pleasure for both of them.

  She caught his bottom lip between her teeth, gave it a sharp little nip before she swung her leg over, straddled his lap. Then, easing back, studying his face, she drained the rest of her wine.