by J. D. Robb
Dutifully, Eve wrote down the names—grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and God help her, the great-greats.
“Ernestine, I’d like your permission to run tests on your van.”
“Oh my goodness! Do you think it could be involved in a crime?” Her little wrinkled face flushed with pleasure. “Wouldn’t that be something?”
“Wouldn’t it?” Eve agreed.
She escaped, drawing in the humid, clogged air like spring water. “I think I swallowed a hair ball,” she said to Peabody.
“You’ve got enough cat hair on you to make a rug.” Peabody brushed at her uniform pants. “Me, too. What is it with old women and cats?”
“Cats are okay. I have a cat. But if I ever start collecting them like stamps, you have permission to blast me in the heart.”
“Can I get that on record, sir?”
“Shut up. Let’s go talk to Billy, the good Samaritan parking attendant.”
Good Samaritan, my ass, was Eve’s first thought.
Billy was a long, loose-limbed black man with doe-brown eyes behind amber sunshades, and nimble feet inside five hundred dollar airboots.
The shades, the boots, and the glint of gold she noticed shining in his ears were hardly in the range of budget for a vehicle jockey in a small parking garage in Lower Manhattan.
“Miss Ernestine!” His smile lit up like Christmas morning, full of joy and innocence. “Isn’t she something? I hope I get around like that when I hit her age. She’s in here Sunday mornings like clockwork. Churchgoing.”
“So I hear. I have her written authorization to search her van, and, if I deem it necessary, to impound it for testing.”
“She wasn’t in an accident.” He took the authorization Eve offered. “I’d’ve noticed if there were any dings on the van. She drives careful.”
“I’m sure she does. Where’s the van?”
“I keep it down on the first level. Makes it easier for her.”
And you, Eve thought, as she followed him back into the shadows and harsh lights of the garage.
“There aren’t too many parking facilities with attendants in the city,” she commented. “Most that do have attendants use droids.”
“Nope, not too many of us left. But my uncle, he owns this one, he likes the personal touch.”
“Who doesn’t? Miss Ernestine mentioned that you give her a nice discount.”
“We do what we can,” he said cheerfully. “Nice, elderly lady. Keeps her slot year round. Gotta give her a break, you know.”
“And she only uses it five times a month.”
“Like clockwork.”
“Tell me, Billy, how much do you make, any average month, renting out vehicles.”
He stopped by a small gray van. “What’s that?”
“Somebody needs a ride, they drop in and see Billy, and he fixes them up. You get the codes, pocket the fee, vehicle comes back, you put it in its slot. Owner’s none the wiser, and a nice sideline for you.”
“You’ve got no proof of something like that.”
Eve leaned on the van. “You know, as soon as somebody tells me I’ve got no proof, it just makes me want to dig down and get it. I’m just that perverse.”
He pokered up. “This van stays in this slot except on Sundays and every third Wednesday. I park and I fetch, and that’s all I do.”
“You’re independently wealthy then, and provide this service to the community out of a spirit of altruism and benevolence. Nice boots, Bill.”
“Man likes nice shoes, it’s no crime.”
“Uh-huh. I’m going to run tests on this van. If I find this van was used in the case I’m investigating, your ass is in a sling. It’s homicide, Billy. I got two bodies so far. I’ll be taking you into Interview and holding you as an accessory.”
“Murder? Are you crazy?” He took a stumbling step back, and Eve shifted to the balls of her feet in case he decided to run.
“Peabody,” she said mildly, catching her aide’s movement to box Billy in. “Am I crazy?”
“No, sir. Billy does have nice shoes, and appears to be in big trouble.”
“I didn’t kill anybody!” Billy’s voice spiked. “I got a job. I pay rent. I pay taxes.”
“And I bet when I do a run of your financials—income, outlay, and so on, I’m going to find some interesting discrepancies.”
“I get good tips.”
“Billy, Billy, Billy.” On a windy sigh, Eve shook her head. “You’re making this harder than it has to be. Peabody, call in a black-and-white. We’ll need our friend here transported down to Central and held for questioning.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I want a lawyer.”
“Oh, you’re going somewhere, Billy. But you can have a lawyer.”
Eve went with instinct and called in a team of sweepers.
“You think this is the vehicle.”
“Nondescript gray, no fancy touches. Who’s going to notice it? It’s parked and largely unused, only a good healthy walk from the data club. Quick subway ride or a longer but still healthy walk from there to the 24/7 where Rachel Howard worked. Same with Columbia. Drive it uptown to Juilliard, to Lincoln Center. Hey, you can take it out basically whenever you want. Safer than using your own, if you have one. Safer than officially renting anything. Slip friendly Billy the fee, drive off.”
She stood back as the sweepers arrived and got to work. “It fits him. You don’t steal a vehicle. That’s makes the vehicle a target. Borrow a friend’s? What if the friend mentions it to another friend? What if you run into trouble, have a fender bender? Friend’s going to be pissed. But something happens to this, you just ditch it, and leave Billy holding the bag.”
“But Billy knows him.”
“Unlikely. Just another side customer. If he used it, he used it twice, and made certain he didn’t do anything to make him memorable. He’s smart,” Eve continued. “And he plans. He’d scoped out Ernestine, this place, the van, Billy, well in advance. He lives or works in this sector.”
She tucked her hands in her back pockets and looked toward the garage entrance, toward the street. “But he didn’t kill them here. Don’t piss in your own pool.”
“Should I run imaging and photographic businesses in this sector?”
“Yeah.” Eve replied. “We’re closing in.”
One of the sweepers popped out. “Getting a lot of human and feline hair, Lieutenant. And some synthetic. Plenty of prints.”
“I want everything you get taken directly to Berenski at the lab. I’ll clear it.”
“Shouldn’t take long. Vehicle’s pretty clean.”
“Appreciate it. Peabody.” She headed back to her own vehicle, pulling out her pocket-link as she walked. “Berenski.”
“Yeah, yeah, busy. Go away.”
“Dickie. I’ve got a sweeper haul heading your way within the hour. Sucked up from what I believe is the van used to transport the vics in the two college homicides.”
“Tell them to take their time. Won’t get to it till tomorrow, maybe the day after.”
“You get to them before end of shift, give me verification, I’ve got two seats, owner’s box, for the Yankees. You pick the game.”
He rubbed his chin with his long, long fingers. “You’re not even going to argue and threaten me first. Just the bribe?”
“I’m kind of pressed for time myself, so let’s just cut to it.”
“Four seats.”
“For four, I want the results wrapped in a pink ribbon and delivered to me within two hours—from now.”
“Done. Go away.”
“Dickhead,” she spewed as she stuffed the ’link back in her pocket.
“How come you never offer me seats in the owner’s box?” Peabody complained.
“How come my ass has only managed to plop down in one twice this season? Life’s a bitch, Peabody.”
Billy probably thought so as he sat in an Interview room with his prune-faced public defender and waited for Eve to question him.
She�
�d put him on ice for an hour, and was stalling a bit longer, waiting for Dickie to come through. While she waited, she watched Billy through the one-way glass.
“No priors,” she said to Peabody. “Not on his adult record. A couple of minor brushes as a juvenile. He’s careful. Slick operator.”
“You don’t think he’s involved.”
“Not directly. He’s a scam artist with a nice, easy scam. His uncle probably taught it to him. I’m going to go get started on him. When Dickhead sends the lab results, bring them in.”
Billy glowered at her. The PD pursed her thin lips.
“Lieutenant Dallas, you’ve held my client for more than an hour. Unless you’re prepared to charge him—”
“Don’t tempt me. I’m well under the legal time frame, so don’t pull the ‘poor schmoe’ routine on me. Record on. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, conducting a formal interview with Billy Johnson regarding case files H-23987 and H-23992. Your client, Billy Johnson, has been advised of his rights and obligations, and has opted to take advantage of his rights and avail himself of the services of a public defender. Correct?”
“That is correct. At this point, neither my client nor I are clear on why he was forcibly brought in for questioning in—”
“Forcibly? Anyone use force on you, Billy? Did you sustain any injuries during your transport to this facility?”
“Took me off my job. Didn’t give me much choice.”
“Let it be on record that the subject was remanded into police custody and transported to Interview at Central, without force. He has been read the Revised Miranda. He has availed himself of counsel. You want to muddy the waters, sister, I’ll muddy them right back. Now you and I can continue to play pushy-shovey, or I can question your client and get this done.”
“My client was not given the opportunity to voluntarily—”
“Oh, zip it,” Billy snapped and rubbed the crop of cornrows covering his head. “What the hell do you want?” he demanded of Eve. “I don’t know anything about anybody getting dead. What the hell do you want?”
“We’ve swept Ernestine Macnamara’s van, Billy. Lots of prints, lots of trace evidence. We both know we’re going to find some of that trace evidence doesn’t go back to Ernestine or her faithful Sunday group.”
“I park the car for her, so my prints—”
“We’re going to find more than yours, too. And that puts you in the wringer.” She kept her focus on him. “Rachel Howard. Kenby Sulu.”
She watched his mouth tremble. “Oh my Jesus. Those college kids. Oh my God. I watched the reports on the news. Those are the dead college kids.”
“Mr. Johnson, I advise you to say nothing—”
“Shut the hell up.” His breath came fast as he stared at Eve. “Look, maybe I make a little extra on the side, but I never hurt anybody.”
“Tell me about the money on the side.”
“Just a minute.” The PA rapped a fist on the table with enough force that Eve glanced at her with some admiration. “Just a damn minute. My client will cooperate, will answer your questions only on the condition of immunity. No charges will be forthcoming against him on this or any other matter.”
“Why don’t I just give him one of our platinum get-out-of-jail-free cards?”
“He will make no statement without guarantees. Cooperation is contingent on immunity from any charges regarding the parking facility and/or the homicides.”
“I’ll just go ask Rachel Howard and Kenby Sulu how they feel about immunity from homicide,” Eve said coldly. “Oh wait, I can’t. They’re dead.”
“I don’t need immunity from any homicides. I didn’t hurt anybody.” He leaned forward, grabbed Eve’s hand. “I swear to God. I swear on my son. I got a little boy. He’s three. I swear on his life I didn’t kill anybody. I’ll tell you anything I can.”
He drew a little breath, sat back. “But, well, I could use that immunity when it comes to the parking garage. I got a little boy. I gotta think about him.”
“I’m not interested in rousting you over the sideline, Billy. As long as the sideline is shut down. And believe me, I’ll know if it starts up again.”
“It’s closed.”
“Lieutenant.” Peabody stepped in, passed Eve a file. “Lab results.”
“Thank you, Officer. Stand by.” She opened the file, did her best to smother the laugh when she spotted the pink ribbon tucked inside. At least Peabody had had the foresight to remove it.
She skimmed the data. Not only did the carpet fibers match, but the sweepers had removed hair identified as Rachel Howard’s and Kenby Sulu’s from the van.
No longer amused, Eve lifted cool, flat eyes to Billy’s face. “I want to know who took the van out on the nights of August eighth and August tenth.”
“Okay, see here’s how it works. Somebody comes by, says to me, ‘I need a ride.’ Maybe they want a nice little two-seater to drive their girl someplace, or a cushy sedan to take their grandma to a wedding, or something.”
“Or a set of wheels to drive away in after they’ve hit a liquor store. Maybe a nice sturdy all-terrain to bop around in when they’re making an illegals deal over in Jersey. This way they don’t have to jack it, or bother with any pesky paperwork.”
“Maybe.” He gave her a slow nod. “I don’t ask. Don’t want to know, particularly. What I do is tell them what’s available, and for how long. Fee’s stiff and you gotta pay double up front. Get the deposit back when you return the vehicle in good condition. Still, we’re cheaper than standard rental, and there’s no paper.”
“Everybody loves a bargain.”
“See we got a lot of slots taken up on a yearly basis. We keep the rates down. Give regulars a good break. Some of these people, like Miss Ernestine, wouldn’t be able to keep a ride ’cause the slot rent’s so steep.”
“Just your little community service. You’re going to have a long wait for your medal, Billy.”
“Didn’t figure how it hurt anybody. The customer gets a good deal, and I get the bonus. It’s put my kid in a classy pre-school. You know what those cost?”
“Who rented the van?”
“See, that’s the thing. People come and they go. Repeaters, you get to know, get to figure what ride they like best. This guy, I just don’t remember too much. Only came by the two times, I’m pretty sure. Knew what he wanted, paid the fee, brought it back. I didn’t think anything of it. White guy,” he said quickly.
“Go on.”
“Average-looking white guy, I don’t know. Who pays attention?”
“Old, young?”
“Ah, twenty-five, thirty. ’Round there. Shorter than me, but not much. Maybe a little under six feet? Dressed neat. I mean not sloppy. Looked like an average working white guy. Could be I’d seen him around the neighborhood before. Could be. He didn’t look like anybody special.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Ah. Shit. Something like: ‘I need to rent a van. A nice, clean one.’ Probably I said something about does this look like a rental port to you—nice and polite though. Then he . . . yeah, yeah, I sort of remember. He pulled out the fee and deposit. All cash. And he said he’d take the gray van on the first level. I took the money, he took the code, and drove off. Brought it back about three A.M. My cousin logged it in.”
His gaze shot back down, and he winced. “Damn. Damn. Is my cousin gonna get in trouble?”
“Give me your cousin’s name, Billy.”
“Shit. Fucking shit. Manny Johnson. He just logged it back in, Lieutenant Dallas. That’s all.”
“Let’s go back to the guy who rented the van. See what else you remember?”
“I didn’t pay enough attention. Ah, he had shades on. Dark shades, I’m thinking. And a ball cap. Maybe a ball cap? Me, I’m looking at the cash money and the threads more than anything else. He dressed neat, he had the fee. Maybe if you showed me his picture or something, I’d remember him, but I don’t see how. He had on the shades and the cap, and we’re doing the
thing inside the port, where it’s shady. He just looked like an average white guy to me.”
“Average white guy,” Eve repeated after the interview. “One who’s killed two people. Who knew how to access a nearly untraceable vehicle to transport them, knew how to get them into said vehicle with minimal fuss, and when and where to dump the bodies without anyone noticing.”
“But you did trace the vehicle,” Peabody reminded her. “We can start doing a canvass, maybe we’ll find someone who saw it around the universities, or the dumping sites.”
“And maybe the Tooth Fairy’s going to come knocking on your door tonight. We’ll go there, Peabody, but first we take the van back to the garage. Average white guy lets Diego off the hook, at least for the pickup.”
Too skinny, too slicked up, Billy had said when he’d looked at the printout of Diego’s ID shot.
“We still got a maybe out of Billy on Hooper.”
“Maybe. Maybe he was shorter, maybe he was older. Maybe he wasn’t. He’s not done yet, so maybe he’ll come back for it. The van and the garage go under surveillance.”
She checked the time. “And now, we’ve got a memorial to attend.”
She hated memorials, that formal acknowledgment of grief. She hated the flowers and the music, the murmur of voices, the sudden bursts of weeping or laughter.
It was probably worse when the dead were young, and the end was violent. She’d been to too many memorials for violent death.
They’d laid Rachel in a glass-sided coffin—one of the trends of mourning Eve found particularly creepy. They’d put her in a dress, a blue one and probably her best, and fixed a little spray of pink roses in her hands.
She watched people file by. The parents, both looking shell-shocked and too calm. Tranq’d to get through the event. And the younger sister who simply looked ravaged and lost.
She saw students she’d questioned, the merchants from the shops near where she’d worked. Teachers, neighbors, friends.
Leeanne Browning was there, with Angela at her side. They spoke to the family, and whatever Leeanne said had tears breaking through the drugs and trickling slowly down the mother’s face.