by Nora Roberts
few drinks. Starts upstairs. Does she hear something? Probably not. Maybe she’s stupid and she comes upstairs after she hears somebody up here. We’ll find out if she was stupid, but I bet he hears her. Hears her come in.”
Eve walked out into the hall, stood there a moment, picturing it, and ignoring the movements of the crime-scene team working in the house.
She walked back, imagined kicking off those sky-high heels. Your arches would just weep with relief. Maybe she lifted one foot, bent over a little, rubbed it.
And when she straightened, he was on her.
Came from behind the door, Eve thought, or out of the closet on the wall beside the door. Stepped right up behind her, yanked her head back by the hair, then sliced.
Lips pursed, she studied the pattern of blood spatter.
Spurted out of the jugular, she thought, onto the bed. She’s facing the bed, he’s behind. He doesn’t get messy. Just slices down quick, gives her a little shove forward. She’s still spurting as she falls.
She glanced toward the windows. Drapes were drawn. Moving over, she eased them back, noted the privacy screen was engaged as well. He’d have done that. Wouldn’t want anyone to notice the light, or movement.
She stepped out again, tossed the mask into her field kit.
Crime scene and the sweepers were already crawling around the place in their safe suits. She nodded toward a uniform. “Tell the ME’s team she’s cleared to be bagged, tagged and transported. Where’s the witness?”
“Got her down in the kitchen, Lieutenant.”
She checked her wrist unit. “Take your partner, start a neighborhood canvass. You’re first on scene, right?”
He straightened a little. “Yes, sir.”
She waited a beat. “And?”
She had a rep. You didn’t want to screw up with Dallas. She was tall, lean and dressed now in summer-weight pants, T-shirt and jacket. He’d seen her seal up before she went into the bedroom, and her right hand had a smear of blood on the thumb.
He wasn’t sure if he should mention it.
Her hair was brown and chopped short. Her eyes were the same color and all cop.
He’d heard it said she chewed up lazy cops for breakfast and spit them out at lunch.
He wanted to make it through the day.
“Dispatch came through at sixteen-forty, report of a break-in and possible death at this address.”
Eve looked back toward the bedroom. “Yeah, extremely possible.”
“My partner and I responded, arrived on scene at sixteen-fifty-two. The witness, identified as Samantha Gannon, resident, met us at the door. She was in extreme distress.”
“Cut through it. Lopkre,” she added, reading his name tag.
“She was hysterical, Lieutenant. She’d already vomited, just outside the front door.”
“Yeah, I noticed that.”
He relaxed a little, since she didn’t seem inclined to take a bite out of him. “Tossed it again, same spot, right after she opened the door for us. Sort of folded in on herself there in the foyer, crying. She kept saying, ‘Andrea’s dead, upstairs.’ My partner stayed with her while I went up to check it out. Didn’t have to get far.”
He grimaced, nodded toward the bedroom. “The smell. Looked into the bedroom, saw the body. Ah, as I could verify death from the visual from the doorway, I did not enter the scene and risk contaminating same. I conducted a brief search of the second floor to confirm no one else, alive or dead, was on the premises, then called it in.”
“And your partner?”
“My partner’s stayed with the witness throughout. She—Officer Ricky—she’s got a soothing way with victims and witnesses. She’s calmed her down considerably.”
“All right. I’ll send Ricky out. Start the canvass.”
She started downstairs. She noted the suitcase just inside the door, the notebook case, the big-ass purse some women couldn’t seem to make a move without.
The living area looked as if it had been hit by a high wind, as did the small media room off the central hallway. In the kitchen, it looked more like a crew of mad cooks—a redundancy in Eve’s mind—had been hard at work.
The uniform sat at a small eating nook in the corner, across a dark blue table from a redhead Eve pegged as middle twenties. She was so pale the freckles that sprinkled over her nose and cheekbones stood out like cinnamon dashed over milk. Her eyes were a strong and bright blue, glassy from shock and tears and rimmed in red.
Her hair was clipped short, even shorter than Eve wore her own, and followed the shape of her head with a little fringe over the brow. She wore enormous silver hoops in her ears, and New York black in pants, shirt, jacket.
Traveling clothes, Eve assumed, thinking of the cases in the foyer.
The uniform—Ricky, Eve remembered—had been speaking in a low, soothing voice. She broke off now, looked toward Eve. The look they exchanged was brief: cop to cop. “You call that number I gave you, Samantha.”
“I will. Thank you. Thanks for staying with me.”
“It’s okay.” Ricky slid out from the table, walked to where Eve waited just inside the doorway. “Sir. She’s pretty shaky, but she’ll hold a bit longer. She’s going to break again though, ’cause she’s holding by her fingernails.”
“What number did you give her?”
“Victim’s Aid.”
“Good. You record your conversation with her?”
“With her permission, yes, sir.”
“See it lands on my desk.” Eve hesitated a moment. Peabody also had a soothing way, and Peabody wasn’t here. “I told your partner to take you and do the knock-on-doors. Find him, tell him I’ve requested you remain on scene for now, and to take another uniform for the canvass. If she breaks, it might be better if we have somebody she relates to nearby.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Give me some space with her now.” Eve moved into the kitchen, stopped by the table. “Ms. Gannon? I’m Lieutenant Dallas. I need to ask you some questions.”
“Yes, Beth, Officer Ricky, explained that someone would . . . I’m sorry, what was your name?”
“Dallas. Lieutenant Dallas.” Eve sat. “I understand this is difficult for you. I’d like to record this, if that’s all right? Why don’t you just tell me what happened.”
“I don’t know what happened.” Her eyes glimmered, her voice thickened dangerously. But she stared down at her hands, breathed in and out several times. It was a struggle for control Eve appreciated. “I came home. I came home from the airport. I’ve been out of town. I’ve been away for two weeks.”
“Where were you?”
“Um. Boston, Cleveland, East Washington, Lexington, Dallas, Denver, New LA, Portland, Seattle. I think I forgot one. Or two.” She smiled weakly. “I was on a book tour. I wrote a book. They published it—e, audio and paper forms. I’m really lucky.”
Her lips trembled, and she sucked in a sob. “It’s doing very well, and they sent—the publisher—they sent me on a tour to promote it. I’ve been bouncing around for a couple weeks. I just got home. I just got here.”
Eve could see by the way Samantha’s gaze flickered around the room that she was moving toward another breakdown. “Do you live here alone? Ms. Gannon?”
“What? Alone? Yes, I live by myself. Andrea doesn’t—didn’t—Oh God . . .”
Her breath began to hitch, and from the way her knuckles whitened as she gripped her hands together, Eve knew this time the struggle was a full-out war. “I want to help Andrea. I need you to help me understand so I can start helping her. So I need you to try to hold on until I do.”
“I’m not a weak woman.” She rubbed the heels of her hands over her face, violently. “I’m not. I’m good in a crisis. I don’t fall apart like this. I just don’t.”
Bet you don’t, Eve thought. “Everybody has a threshold. You came home. Tell me what happened. Was the door locked?”
“Yes. I uncoded the locks, the alarm. I stepped in, dumped my stuff. I was
so happy to be in my own space again. I was tired, so happy. I wanted a glass of wine and a bubble bath. Then I saw the living room. I couldn’t believe it. I was so angry. Just furious and outraged. I grabbed my ’link from my pocket and called Andrea.”
“Because?”
“Oh. Oh. Andrea, she was house-sitting. I didn’t want to leave the house empty for two weeks, and she wanted to have her apartment painted, so it worked out. She could stay here, water my plants, feed the fish . . . Oh Jesus, my fish!” She started to slide out, but Eve grabbed her arm.
“Hold on.”
“My fish. I have two goldfish. Live fish, in my office. I didn’t even look in there.”
“Sit.” Eve held up a finger to hold Samantha in place, then got up, stepped to the door and signaled to one of the sweepers. “Check out the home office, get me the status on a couple of goldfish.”
“Huh?”
“Just do it.” She went back to the table. A tear was tracking down Samantha’s cheek, and the delicate redhead’s skin was blotchy. But she hadn’t broken yet. “Andrea was staying here while you were gone. Just Andrea?”
“Yes. She probably had someone over now and again. She’s sociable. She likes to party. That’s what I thought when I saw the living area. That she’d had some insane party and trashed my place. I was yelling at her machine through the ’link when I started upstairs. I said terrible things.” She dropped her head into her hands.
“Terrible things,” she murmured. “Then there was that horrible smell. I was even more furious. I slammed into the bedroom, and . . . she was there. She was there, lying on the floor by the bed. All the blood, that didn’t even look like blood anymore, but, you know, somehow, you know. I think I screamed. Maybe I blacked out. I don’t know.”
She looked up again, and her eyes were shattered. “I don’t remember. I just remember seeing her, then running down the stairs again. I called nine-one-one. And I was sick. I ran outside and got sick. And then I was stupid.”
“How were you stupid?”
“I went back in the house. I know better. I should’ve stayed outside, waited for the police outside or gone to a neighbor’s. But I wasn’t thinking straight, and I came back in and just stood in the foyer, shaking.”
“You weren’t stupid, you were in shock. There’s a difference. When’s the last time you talked to Andrea?”
“I’m not sure. Early in the tour. From East Washington, I think. Just a quick check.” She dashed a second tear away as if irritated to find it there. “I was awfully busy, and I didn’t have a lot of free time. I called once or twice, left messages. Just to remind her when I was heading home.”
“Did she ever say anything to you about being concerned? About anyone giving her trouble, making threats?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“What about you? Anyone making threats?”
“Me? No. No.” She shook her head.
“Who knew you were out of town?”
“Ah . . . well, everyone. My family, my friends, my agent, publisher, publicist, editor, neighbors. It wasn’t a secret, that’s for sure. I was so juiced about the book, about the opportunity, I pretty much told anyone who’d listen. So . . . It was a burglary, don’t you think? God, I’m sorry, I can’t keep your name in my head.”
“Dallas.”
“Don’t you think it was some sort of burglary, Lieutenant Dallas? Somebody who heard I was gone and figured the house was empty, and . . .”
“Possibly. We’ll need you to check your belongings, see if anything’s missing.” But she’d noted the electronics, the artwork any self-respecting burglar would have taken. And Andrea Jacobs had been wearing a very nice wrist unit, and considerable jewelry. Real or knockoff, it hardly mattered. A B&E man wouldn’t have left them behind.
“Have you had any calls, mail, any contact of an unusual nature recently?”
“Well, since the book was published, I’ve gotten some communications. Mostly through my publisher. People who want to meet me, or who want me to help them get their book published, or want me to write their story. Some of them are pretty strange, I guess. Not threatening, though. And there’s some who want to tell me their theory about the diamonds.”
“What diamonds?”
“From the book. My book’s about a major diamond heist in the early part of the century. Here in New York. My grandparents were involved. They didn’t steal anything,” she said quickly. “My grandfather was the insurance investigator who took the case, and my grandmother—it’s complicated. But a quarter of the diamonds were never recovered.”
“Is that so.”
“Pretty frosty, really. Some of the people who’ve contacted me are just playing detective. It’s one of the reasons for the book’s success. Millions of dollars in diamonds—where are they? It’s been more than half a century, and as far as anyone knows, they’ve never surfaced.”
“You publish under your own name?”
“Yes. See, the diamonds are how my grandparents met. It’s part of Gannon family history. That’s the heart of the book, really. The diamonds are the punch, but the love story is the heart.”
Heart or no heart, Eve thought cynically, a few million in diamonds was a hell of a punch. And a hell of a motive.
“Okay. Have you or Andrea broken off any relationships recently?”
“Andrea didn’t have relationships—per se. She just liked men.” Her white skin turned flaming red. “That didn’t sound right. I mean she dated a lot. She liked to go out, she enjoyed going out with men. She didn’t have a serious monogamous relationship.”
“Any of the men she liked to go out with want something more serious?”
“She never mentioned it. And she would have. She’d have told me if some guy got pushy. She generally went out with men who wanted what she wanted. A good time, no strings.”
“How about you?”
“I’m not seeing anyone right now. Between the writing and the tour, juggling in the day-to-day, I haven’t had the time or inclination. I broke a relationship off about a month ago, but there weren’t any hard feelings.”
“His name?”
“But he’d never—Chad would never hurt anyone. He’s a little bit of an asshole—well, potentially a major asshole—but he’s not . . .”
“It’s just routine. It helps to eliminate. Chad?”
“Oh Jesus. Chad Dix. He lives on East Seventy-first.”
“Does he have your codes and access to the house?”
“No. I mean, he did but I changed them after we broke up. I’m not stupid—and my grandfather was a cop before he went private. He’d have skinned me if I hadn’t taken basic security precautions.”
“He’d have been right to. Who else had the new codes?”
Samantha scrubbed her hands over her hair until it stood up in short, flaming spikes. “The only one who had them besides me is Andrea, and my cleaning service. They’re bonded. That’s Maid In New York. Oh, and my parents. They live in Maryland. I give them all my codes. Just in case.”
Her eyes widened. “The security cam. I have a security cam on the front door.”
“Yes. It’s been shut down, and your disks are missing.”
“Oh.” Her color was coming back, a kind of healthy-girl roses and cream. “That sounds very professional. Why would they be so professional, then trash the house?”
“That’s a good question. I’m going to need to talk to you again at some point, but for now, is there someone you’d like to call?”
“I just don’t think I could talk to anyone. I’m talked out. My parents are on vacation. They’re sailing the Med.” She bit her lip as if chewing on a thought. “I don’t want them to know about this. They’ve been planning this trip for nearly a year and only left a week ago. They’d head straight back.”
“Up to you.”
“My brother’s off planet on business.” She tapped her fingers against her teeth as she thought it through. “He’ll be gone a few more days at least,
and my sister’s in Europe. She’ll be hooking up with my parents in about ten days, so I can just keep them all out of this for now. Yeah, I can keep them out of it. I’ll have to contact my grandparents, but that can wait until tomorrow.”
Eve had been thinking more of Samantha contacting someone to stay with her, someone to lean on. But it seemed the woman’s initial self-estimate was on the mark. She wasn’t a weak woman.