by J. D. Robb
“My questions will be of a highly confidential nature. I’m asking for your discretion.”
“I lived and worked in private homes, among important families, most of my life. I am nothing if not discreet.”
“One of those families included a son. Niles Renquist.”
Gable’s eyebrows shot up, the first genuine animation she’d shown. “If you’ve come all the way from New York to ask me about the Renquists, you’re wasting my time and your own. Mine is valuable to me.”
“Valuable enough, I’d imagine, to want to avoid being transported to New York and brought into formal interview.” The threat was hot air. No judge would give her the power to drag a civilian across state lines on what little she’d gathered. But the idea of the inconvenience was often enough to elicit cooperation.
“I don’t believe you can have me taken to New York like a common criminal.” There was more animation now as temper put an almost rosy flush in Gable’s cheeks. “I have no doubt my attorney could prevent such a high-handed tactic.”
“Maybe. Go ahead and contact him, if you want to go to the trouble, the time, and the expense. We’ll see who wins in the end.”
“I don’t care for your attitude, or your demeanor.”
Gable’s fingers had curled on her thighs, with the knuckles going white. A pincher. Eve was sure of it.
“I get that a lot. Something about murder just gets me all irritable. You can talk to me here and now, Ms. Gable, in the comfort of your own home. Or we can start the bureaucratic ball rolling. Up to you.”
Gable had a good stare, icy and unblinking. But it was no match for a cop with eleven years under her belt. “Very well. You can ask your questions. I’ll answer what I deem appropriate.”
“Did Niles Renquist ever demonstrate violent or disturbing behavior under your watch?”
“Certainly not.” She sniffed even the thought of it away. “He was a well-bred young man from good family. I believe his current position and circumstance bears that out.”
“Does he keep in touch with you?”
“I receive flowers on my birthday and a card at Christmas, as is proper.”
“So, the two of you maintain an affectionate relationship.”
“Affectionate?” Gable’s face drew together as if she’d scented something vaguely unpleasant. “I neither want nor expect affection from any of my charges, Lieutenant Dallas, as I doubt you expect any from your subordinates.”
“What do—or did—you expect?”
“Obedience, respect, and organized, well-disciplined behavior.”
Sounded more like the army than the nursery to Eve, but she nodded. “And you received same from Renquist.”
“Of course.”
“Did you employ corporal punishment?”
“When appropriate. My methods, which served me and my charges well, were to suit the disciplinary action to the child and the offense.”
“To your memory, what disciplinary actions most usually suited Niles Renquist?”
“He responded best to denial. Denial of recreation, society, entertainment, etcetera. He could and would become argumentative or sullen during the deprivation, but would, eventually, submit. He learned, as did all my charges, that there are consequences for unacceptable behavior.”
“Did he have friends?”
“He had a suitably selected number of playmates and acquaintances.”
“Selected by?”
“Myself, or his parents.”
“And his relationship with his parents?”
“Was all that it should be. I fail to see the pertinence of these questions.”
“Nearly done. Did he have any pets?”
“There was, I recall, a family dog. A miniature terrier of some sort. Sarah, the young girl, was particularly fond of it, and nearly inconsolable when it ran away.”
“How old was Renquist when it ran away?”
“Ten or twelve, I believe.”
“How about the young girl, Renquist’s sister? What can you tell me about her?”
“She was a model charge. Amenable, quiet, and well-mannered. A bit clumsy and prone to nightmares, but otherwise biddable and good-natured.”
“Clumsy how?”
“She went through a stage where she tripped over her own feet quite often, or bumped into objects and had more than her share of bumps and scrapes. At my recommendation the Renquists had her vision checked, but her sight was quite perfect. It was simply a matter of a lack of coordination, and a slightly skittish nature. She grew out of it.”
“When would you say she grew out of it?”
“At about twelve, I suppose. She developed grace at a stage when many young girls lose theirs. Puberty is a difficult period, but Sarah bloomed during hers.”
“And about this time, when she developed grace and stopped turning up with cuts and bruises, her brother was sent to Eton. Would that be about right?”
“I suppose it would. Doubtless having my undivided time and attention helped her gain more poise and confidence. Now, if that’s all—”
“Just one more thing. Do you recall if there were any other family pets that went missing during your time with the Renquists? Other animals in the neighborhood that ran away?”
“Other people’s pets weren’t my concern. I have no recollection.”
“Were you following me in there?” Eve asked Roarke when they stood on the sidewalk.
“Clear enough. You’re looking to establish whether or not this Renquist had an abusive female authority figure in his childhood. Whether or not he, in turn, abused his younger, female, sibling. Whether or not he may, as is often the case with serial or torture killers, killed or tortured pets.”
“Textbook stuff,” Eve agreed. “And what’s funny is she didn’t follow the dots. That tells me she’s either oblivious or stupid, hiding something, or the possibility she might have helped raise a psychopath doesn’t enter her tidy little world.”
“What’s your money on?”
“The last one. She’s a pincher, all right, and worse. You get a lot of her type in the foster system. Somebody like her wouldn’t consider she had a mentally or emotionally twisted charge as long as the kid presented the illusion of submission.”
“Did you?”
“Not so much, but I could when it was worth my while. And I know a lot of kids, most kids, come through something like that and lead normal lives. Renquist could be one of them. His sister might very well have been clumsy. But I don’t like coincidence. I’ve got to mull this over and I’ve got to go meet the Boston cop.”
“I’ll drop you.”
“No, better I catch a cab or take the underground. This guy sees me show up in a hot car with a fancy piece behind the wheel, he’s not going to like me.”
“You know how I love being referred to as your fancy piece.”
“Sometimes you’re my love muffin.”
He managed a strangled laugh. She could, at the oddest times, surprise him. “And I try my very best to earn the name. In any case, I’ve got some business I can take care of. Why don’t you contact me when you’ve finished, and let me know what comes next?”
“You’re pretty amenable for a fancy piece.”
He leaned down and kissed her lightly. “I’ve been thoroughly disciplined.”
“My ass.”
“Which is certainly part of the package. No rush,” he added as he slid into the car. “I’m going to be at least an hour myself.”
It took Eve over a quarter of that to travel through the hideous Boston traffic. It still put her at the bar and grill a half block from Haggerty’s station house ahead of time.
It was a typical cop haunt—good, cheap food and drink with no fancy notes. Booths, a scatter of two and four tops, and plenty of stools along the bar.
There were a number of off-shift cops, in and out of uniform, winding down from the day. Attention slid her way when she entered, the brief beat of observation, then recognition of breed. Cop to cop.
She’d expected Haggerty to come in early—marking his territory—and wasn’t surprised by the signal from a lone man at a table.
He was toughly built—bull-chested, big-shouldered, with a ruddy, square face topped by a short crop of sandy hair. He studied her as she crossed the room.
There was a beer, half gone, in front of him.
“DS Haggerty?”
“That’s me. Lieutenant Dallas.”
“Thanks for making time.”
They shook hands; she sat.
“Want a beer?”
“Could use one, thanks.”
She let him order it, since it was his territory, and let him take his time sizing her up.
“You got an interest in one of my open cases,” he said at length.
“I got a vic. A strangulation, rape with object. A run-through IRCCA for like crimes turned up yours. My theory is he was practicing, perfecting, before he did the New York job.”
“He wasn’t sloppy in Boston. Neither am I.”
She nodded, sipped her beer. “I’m not here to bust balls, Haggerty, or to question your investigation. I need a hand. If I’m right, the guy we’re both looking for is working in New York now, and he’s not done. So we help each other, and we shut him down.”
“And you get the collar.”
She drank more beer, let it simmer. “I take him in New York, I get the collar. That’s the way it works. But your boss will know if any information you share with me aided in the arrest and conviction of this son of a bitch. And you’ll close your case. Your cold case,” she added. “Unless you’re a fuckup, you’ll be able to hang another murder on him. When this goes down, there’s going to be a lot of media. You’ll get your share of that, too.”
He sat back. “Pissed you off.”
“I start off my day pissed off. My investigation has led me to believe this asshole has killed at least six people to date. I suspect there are more, and I know goddamn well there will be more.”
He sobered. “Stand down, Lieutenant. I was testing the waters. I don’t give a skinny rat’s ass about the media. Not going to say I don’t care about the collar. Fucking right I do. My vic was beat to shit before he tied his goddamn bow around her neck. So I want him, and I got nothing. I worked the case hard, and got nothing. Yeah, officially it’s cold, but it ain’t cold to me.”
He took a long drink of beer. “It’s under my skin, and I work it whenever I get the chance. So you tell me you got a case in New York, and it brings you back here, to mine, I want a piece of it.”
Because she understood, she lowered her hackles and took the first step. “He’s imitating historic serial killers. One of the reasons he hit Boston—”
“Boston Strangler?” Haggerty pursed his lips. “I played with that awhile. Copycat thing. Had enough of the same elements. I studied up on those cases, looking for an angle to work. Nothing gelled, and since he didn’t hit again . . .”
“He did a homeless woman in New L.A. before Boston, and he’s hit New York. He’s also killed three LCs, Paris, London, New York, by emulating Jack the Ripper.”
“You’ve got to be shitting me.”
“It’s the same man. He left me notes with my two.”
“Nothing like that with mine,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “Don’t have a single witness. The security system on the building, if you can call it that, was taken out the day before he killed her. Nobody got around to fixing it. Let me get out my notes.”
She took her own from his. Before she’d drained her beer they’d agreed to exchange case files.
She checked the time, calculated. A call to the West Coast netted her a meet with the primary there. Another got her Roarke.
He seemed to be in some sort of a bar himself, but from the pretty lights, the quiet hum, and the glint of what she thought was crystal, it was several steps away from Haggerty’s hangout.
“I’ve wrapped up here,” she told him. “I’m on my way to transpo. How much time do you need?”
“Another half hour on this will do me.”
“Fine. Just meet me there. I’ve got enough to occupy myself with until you show. Any problem for you if we head straight to the West Coast from here?”
“I believe I can find something to occupy myself with there as well.”
She didn’t doubt it. By the time he walked onto the shuttle, she’d reread her notes and was writing a report on her Boston leg for her team and her commander.
Roarke set his briefcase aside, cleared the shuttle to take off when ready, then ordered them both a meal.
“How do you feel about basketball?” he asked her.
“It’s okay. Lacks the poetry of baseball and the sheer meanness of arena ball, but it’s got speed and drama. What’d you do, spend your hour buying the Celtics?”
“I did, yes.”
She looked up. “Get out.”
“Actually, it took a bit more than an hour. We’ve been in negotiations for a few months now. Since I was here, I gave it the last push and we finalized it. I thought it would be fun.”
“I spend an hour drinking a lukewarm beer and talking murder, and you buy a basketball team.”
“We should all play to our strengths.”
She ate because it was there, and filled Roarke in.
“Haggerty’s thorough. Bulldog type, not just in build. In mindset. He hasn’t let go of the case, and a lot of cops would have after this amount of time. He’s kept picking at it but hasn’t gotten anywhere. I just can’t see what he missed. Might catch something when I see the full file, but he did the steps.”
“And how does that help you?”
“Knowing he was here. Being sure of it. The dates. I can backtrack there, see if anybody on my list was in Boston, or just unaccounted for on the corresponding dates. See if maybe, just maybe, there’s a connection between any of them and Haggerty’s victim.”
“Someone else is a bulldog,” Roarke commented. “Not in body type, but certainly in mindset. I could check the transportation angle for you. See if any of your names show up on public or private transpos for those dates.”
“I don’t have the authorization for that. Yet. I’m going to get it. I pull the New L.A. and the European murders into the mix, and I’ll get it. Any and all of my current suspects are high-profile enough that if I brush too close to the line, they could use it to get evidence tossed in trial.”
“That’s assuming they, or their attorneys, saw the brush strokes.”
They wouldn’t see Roarke’s, Eve knew. No one would. “I can’t use the evidence if I don’t have the authorization to seek the evidence.” But she’d know enough to be able to narrow the list. Enough, potentially, to save a life.
“I take him down, give him any wiggle room in the courts and he gets off, he’ll kill someone else down the road. He won’t stop until he’s stopped. Not only because he enjoys it, he needs it, but because he’s been working toward this for a long, long time. If I screw this up, all I do is put a hitch in his stride. Once he gets his rhythm back, whoever he kills is on me. I can’t live with that.”
“All right. I understand that. But, Eve, look at me now, promise me that if he kills someone else before you’re able to stop him, you won’t feel the same way.”
She did look at him. “I wish I could” was all she said.
Detective Sloan was a young, eager beaver who’d caught the case with his older, more experienced, and less interested partner. The partner had since retired, and Sloan was partnered with a female counterpart who’d come along for the ride for the meet with Eve.
“It was the first homicide where I was primary,” Sloan told Eve over chilled juices in a health bar. New L.A.’s version, she supposed, of the cop haunt.
The place was bright and cool, done in crisp colors and boasting a cheery waitstaff who were bouncy on their feet.
Eve thanked God she lived and worked on the other coast, where waiters were appropriately surly and never felt obliged to off
er you something called Pineapple-Papaya Phizz as the special of the day.
“Trent gave it to me as a training exercise,” he added.
“He gave it to you so he didn’t have to lift his fat ass off his desk chair,” the partner put in.
Sloan grinned amiably. “Might’ve played into it. The victim was one of the disenfranchised. I did track some family after we identified her, but nobody cared to claim the body. I got conflictings from the witnesses I managed to convince to talk to me. Though they were impaired by some form of illegals, the most substantial described a male—race undetermined—wearing a gray or blue uniform who was seen entering the building at or around the time of the murder. Victim was squatting, and since anybody else in the building was also there illegally, everybody worked at ignoring everybody else.”
“You’ve got a hot one back in New York with a similar MO.” The new partner’s name was Baker, and both she and Sloan were attractive, healthy specimens with sun-bleached hair. They looked more like a couple of professional surfers than cops.
Unless, Eve mused, you looked at the eyes.
“We, ah, did a little research after you contacted me,” Sloan explained. “Get a better handle on what you were looking for, and why.”
“Good, saves me time explaining myself. You could reach out on this and let me have a copy of your case files, and walk me through the steps of your investigation.”
“I can do that, and I’d like quid pro quo. My first case as primary,” Sloan added. “I’d sure like to close it.”
“We’d like to close it,” Baker corrected. “Trent cashed it on his twenty-five, plans to spend the rest of his life fishing. He’s not in this.”
“Fair enough,” Eve said.
This time when she was finished, she let Roarke pick her up. To her mind, any cops who weren’t embarrassed to be seen drinking papaya juice couldn’t blink at a fellow officer getting into a sleek little convertible. She stashed her growing bag of notes and discs behind her seat.
“I want to run by the scene, take a look at the setup.”