by J. D. Robb
She pressed her fingers to her eyes before dropping them into her lap. “They want me to come to Maryland, stay with them, or they threaten to descend on me here. It’s tough going to keep them from calling my parents and sibs. I’m holding them off, and I’m gratefully accepting Roarke’s offer for security on them until this is resolved. Until it is, I’m staying here. I think it’s important that I see this through, that I deal in my way with what’s happening now just as they did in theirs with what happened then.”
“Part of dealing is giving the primary any and all data that may pertain to this investigation.”
“Yes, you’re right again. Just let me call, speak to her first. We don’t break promises in my family. It’s like a religion to my grandmother. I’ll go in the bedroom, call her now, if you can just wait a few minutes.”
“Go ahead.”
“Admirable,” Roarke said when she’d gone. “To set such store by your word, particularly to family when for some reason the more intimate you are, the easier a promise is to break. Or at least bend to circumstance.”
“Her great-grandfather broke a lot of promises,” Eve reflected. “Jack O’Hara broke a lot of promises, to Laine and Laine’s mother. So Samantha’s grandmother wanted to end the cycle. You don’t intend to keep your word, even when it’s hard, you don’t give it. You have to respect that.”
She glanced toward the bedroom, back at him. “Offering to take care of her security, and the Maryland Gannons’, is classy. But you could’ve sent a lackey to handle it.”
“I wanted to meet her. She struck a chord with you, and I wanted to see why. I do.”
When Samantha came out of the bedroom a few minutes later, she was teary-eyed. “I’m sorry. I hate worrying her. Worrying them. I’m going to have to go down to Maryland and put their minds at ease very soon.”
She sat, took a bracing sip of coffee. “Judith and Westley Crew,” she began. She gave them the foundation data she had, and at one point went to get some of her own notes to refresh her memory.
“So you see, when my grandfather tracked her and found Crew had been there, he believed he might’ve given the child something that held the diamonds. A portion of them, in any case. It was a safe place to keep them while he went about his work.”
“He would’ve had half of them, or access to half of them, at that time?” Eve made her own notes.
“Yes. With what was recovered in the safe-deposit box, that left a quarter of the diamonds among the missing. Crew’s ex-wife and son were gone. Everything indicated, to my grandmother at least, that she’d been hiding from Crew. The change of names, the quiet job, the middle-class neighborhood. Then the way she packed up and left—sold everything she could or gave it away and just got out. It seemed she was running again because he’d found her. Or more, to my grandmother’s mind, the boy. Just a little boy, you see, and his mother was trying to protect him from a man she’d come to know was dangerous and obsessive. If you look at Crew’s background and criminal record, his pattern of behavior, she was right to be afraid.”
“She might have taken off because she had a few million in diamonds in her possession,” Eve pointed out.
“Yes. But my grandparents didn’t believe, and I don’t believe, that a man like Crew would have given them to her, would have told her. Used her, yes, and the boy, but not given her that kind of power. He needed to be in charge. He would’ve found them again when he wanted to. I’ve no doubt he threatened the woman and would have discarded or disposed of her when his son was older. Old enough to be of more interest and use to Crew. My grandfather let it go, let the remaining diamonds go, let them go. Because my grandmother asked it of him.”
“She’d once been a young child,” Roarke said with a nod, “who’d had to be uprooted or moved about, who’d never had a settled home or the security that comes with it. And like Crew’s ex, her mother had made a choice—to separate herself from the man and shield her child.”
“Yes. Yes. The bulk of the diamonds were back where they belonged. And they were, as my grandmother is fond of saying, only things, after all. The boy and his mother were finally safe. If they’d pursued it, and I have no doubt my grandfather could have tracked them down, they’d have been pulled into the mess. The young boy would have had everything his father had done pushed in his face, would very likely have ended up a national news story himself. His life might have been damaged or severely changed by this one thing. So they told no one.”
She leaned forward. “Lieutenant, they withheld information. It was probably illegal for them to withhold it. But they did it for the best possible reason. They would have gained more. Five percent more of over seven million, if they’d tracked her down. They didn’t, and the world’s managed to sputter along without those particular stones.”
Samantha wasn’t just defending herself and her grandparents, Eve noted. She was defending a woman and child she’d never met. “I’m not interested in dragging your grandparents into this. But I am interested in finding Judith and Westley Crew. The diamonds don’t mean squat to me, Samantha. I’m not Robbery, I’m Homicide. Two women are dead, you may very well be a target. The motive for this comes from the diamonds, and that’s my interest in them. Someone else can do the research and dig up the fact that Crew had a wife and child. This could make them targets.”
“Well, my God.” As it struck home, Samantha squeezed her eyes shut. “I never thought of it. Never considered it.”
“Or the person who killed Andrea Jacobs and Tina Cobb may be connected to Crew. It may be his son, who’s decided he wants to get back what he feels belonged to his father.”
“We always assumed . . . Everything my grandparents found out about Judith showed, clearly showed, she was doing everything she could to give her son a normal life. We assumed she succeeded. Just because his father was a murderer, a thief, a son of a bitch, doesn’t mean the child took on his image. I don’t believe we work that way, Lieutenant. That we’re genetically fated. Do you?”
“No.” She glanced at Roarke. “No, I don’t. But I do believe, whatever their parentage, some people are just born bad.”
“What a happy thought,” Roarke murmured.
“Not finished. However we’re born, we end up making choices. Right ones, wrong ones. I need to find Westley Crew and determine what choices he made. This needs to be closed out, Samantha. It needs to end.”
“They’ll never forgive themselves. If somehow this has come full circle and struck out at me, my grandparents will never forgive themselves for making the choice they made all those years ago.”
“I hope they’re smarter than that,” Roarke said. “They made a choice, for a child they didn’t even know. If that child made choices as a man, it’s on him. What we do with our lives always is.”
They left together, with Eve bouncing the new information in her head until she formed patterns. “I need you to find them,” she said to Roarke.
“Understood.”
“Coincidence happens, but mostly it’s bullshit. I’m not buying that some guy read Gannon’s book and got a hard-on for missing diamonds and decided to kill a couple of women in order to find them. He’s got an investment in them, a connection to them. The book set it off, but the connection goes further back. How long before the book came out did the hype for it start?”
“I’ll find out. There will also be a list of some sort of people, reviewers, accounts and so forth, that were sent advance copies. You have to add word of mouth to that, I’m afraid. People the editorial staff, publicity and others might have spoken to.”
“We’ve got this great book coming out,” Peabody began. “It’s about this diamond heist right here in New York.”
“Exactly so. The man you’re looking for might have heard of it over drinks somewhere. Might have an acquaintance or attended a party with one of the editors, a reviewer, someone in sales who spoke about it.”
“Won’t that be fun to wade through? Get me the list,” she repeated as they st
epped out into the lobby. “And let me know who you put on her, security-wise. I want my people to know your people. Oh, and I need two box seats, Mets game.”
“Personal use or bribe?”
“Bribe. Please, you know I’m a Yankees fan.”
“What was I thinking. How do you want them?”
“Just send the authorization to Dickhead at the lab. Berenski. Thanks. I gotta book.”
“Kiss me goodbye.”
“I already kissed you goodbye this morning. Twice.”
“Third time lucky.” He planted his lips firmly on hers. “I’ll be in touch, Lieutenant.” He strolled out. Even before he hit the sidewalk a sleek black car pulled up to the curb, and a driver hopped out to open the door.
Like magic, Eve thought.
“I’d like to be in touch with him. Anytime. Anywhere. Any way.”
Eve turned her head slowly. “Did you say something, Peabody?”
“Who, sir, me, sir? Nope. Absolutely not.”
“Good.”
She took the meeting with Mira next while Peabody ate lunch at her desk and updated the file. As far as food went, Eve figured Peabody had the better end of the stick.
The Eatery was always crowded, always noisy, no matter what the time of day. It made Eve think of a public school cafeteria, except the food was even worse and most of the people chowing down were armed.
Mira was there ahead of her and had a booth. She’d either gotten very lucky, Eve thought, or had used some clout to order one up earlier. Either way, a booth was a big step up from one of the tiny four-tops crammed together, or the counter service, where cop asses hung over the stingy stools.
Mira wasn’t a cop—technically—and sure as hell didn’t look like one. She didn’t, to Eve’s mind, look like a criminologist, a doctor or a psychiatrist either. Though she was all of those.
What she looked like was a pretty, well-dressed woman who might be seen browsing the high-end shops along Madison.
She might’ve bought the suit in one of them. Surely only the very brave or very stylish would wear that lemon-foam shade in a city like New York, where grime just sprang up off the asphalt and clung to any available surface like a leech to flesh.
But the suit was spotless and looked cool and fresh. It set off the highlights in Mira’s soft brown hair and made her eyes seem bluer. She wore a trio of long, thin, gold ropes with it where stones of a deeper yellow glinted like little pieces of sunlight.
She was drinking something out of a tall glass that looked as frosty as her suit, and smiled over the rim as Eve slid into the booth across from her.
“You look hot and harried. You should have one of these.”
“What is it?”
“Delicious.” Without waiting for Eve’s assent, Mira ordered one from the comp menu bolted to the side of the booth. “How are you otherwise?”
“Okay.” It always took Eve a moment to adjust when small talk was involved. And with Mira it wasn’t exactly small talk. People made that when they didn’t give a damn one way or the other, and mostly, she assumed, to hear their own voices. Mira cared. “Good. Summerset’s vacationing far, far away. Cheers me right up.”
“He made a quick recovery from his injuries.”
“He was still a little wobbly on the one pin, but yeah.”
“And how is our newest detective?”
“She likes to sneak her badge out and grin at it a lot yet. And she manages to work the word ‘detective’ into a sentence several times a day. She’s dressing really weird. Throws me off. Otherwise, she’s jetting along with it.”
Eve glanced at the drink that slid out of the serving slot. It did look pretty good. She took one cautious sip. “It tastes like your suit. Cool and summery and a little tart.” She thought it over. “That probably sounded wrong.”
“No.” With a laugh, Mira sat back. “Thank you. A color like this? Completely impractical. That’s why I couldn’t resist it. I was just admiring your jacket, and how that wonderful shade of toast looks on you. It would turn my complexion muddy. And I just can’t wear separates with the same panache as you.”
“Separates?”
It took Mira a moment to realize such a basic fashion word baffled her favorite cop. “Jacket, pants, whatever, sold individually rather than as part of a unit, as a suit would be.”
“Hah. Separates. How about that. And I always thought they were, you know, jacket, pants, whatever.”
“My God, I would love to go shopping with you.” This time Mira’s laugh flowed over the cranky noises of the Eatery. “And you look as if I’ve just stabbed you with my fork under the table. One day I’ll rope you into it, but for now rather than ruin your appetite, why don’t I ask you how Mavis is doing?”
“Good.” Though Eve wasn’t sure talking about pregnancy was any less of an appetite blower than shopping. “You wouldn’t know she was, ah, cooking anything in there if she didn’t advertise it. She and Leonardo might rent blimp space. He’s designing her all kinds of pregnant-chick clothes, but I can’t really tell the difference.”
“Give them all my best. I know you want to get to business. Why don’t we order first? I’m having a Greek salad. You can usually trust those here.”
“Yeah, that’s fine.”
Mira ordered two from the menu. “Do you know I remember bits and pieces about the robbery at the Exchange? It was very big news at the time.”
“How? You’re too young.”
“Now that has set me up for the day. Actually, I was only, what . . . oh, how depressing. I’d’ve been about four, I suppose. But my uncle happened to be dating a woman who had a booth in the Exchange. She was a jewelry designer and was there, on the main floor, when the robbery happened. I remember hearing my parents talk about it, and when I was a bit older I developed such an interest in crime that I looked up the details. The family connection, however distant, added to the excitement for me.”
“Is she still around? The designer?”
“I have no idea. It didn’t work out between her and my uncle. I do know that she didn’t know a thing until security shut the place down. She didn’t know the inside man. At least that’s what I got from my uncle when I asked him about it later. I could get you her name, I’m sure, if you want to try to track her down.”
“I might, but it’s probably the wrong direction. At least at this point. Tell me about the killer.”
“Well. The act, the murders themselves, aren’t his priority. They’re a by-product. His victims and his methods are different, each suiting his needs at the time. He would be most interested in his own needs. The fact that they were both women, even attractive, isn’t important. I doubt he has a spouse or serious relationship as either would interfere with his self-absorption. There was nothing sexual, despite his romancing of Tina Cobb, and that romancing was not only a means to an end but on his own terms.”
“Taking her places he preferred in order to show off his superior intellect and taste.”
“Yes. There was nothing personal in either murder. He sees the big picture, from his own narrow view. Cobb could be utilized and exploited, and so she was. He plans and considers, so it follows that he knew he could kill her when her use to him ended. He knew her, set out to know her. He knew her face, the touch of her hand, the sound of her voice, may have been intimate with her physically if it moved him toward his goal, but there would be no personal connection for him.”
“He destroyed her face.”
“Yes, but not out of rage, not out of personal emotion. Out of self-preservation. Both murders were a result of his need to protect himself. He will remove, destroy, eliminate anything or anyone who gets in the way of his goal or his own personal safety.”
“There was violence in his elimination of Cobb.”
“Yes.”
“He hurt her. To extract information?”
“Possibly, yes. More likely to attempt to mislead the police, to make them think it was a crime of passion. It may have been both. He wo
uld have considered. He has time to consider. He took Cobb to crowded places, away from her own aegis. But his choices reflect a certain style. Art, theater, a trendy restaurant.”
“Reflecting his aegis.”
“He would want to be comfortable, yes.” The first salad plate slid out, and Mira set it in front of Eve. “He entered Gannon’s home when he knew she was out. He was careful to shut down the security, to take the disks. To protect himself. He brought a weapon—though he believed the house empty, he brought the knife. He prepares for eventualities, takes detours when necessary. He didn’t attempt to make the break-in and murder appear to be a burglary gone wrong by taking away valuables.”
“Because it had already been done? Because Alex Crew used that method with Laine Tavish?”
Mira took the second plate, smiled. “It reflects a powerful ego, doesn’t it? ‘I won’t repeat, I’ll create.’ And a respect for art and antiques. He didn’t vandalize, didn’t destroy the artwork, the valuable furniture. He’d consider such a thing beneath him. He has knowledge of such things, likely owns such things himself. Certainly he aspires to. But if it was only aspiration, he would have taken what appealed to his sense of aesthetic or avarice. He’s very focused.”
“He’s educated? Cultured?”
“Art galleries, museums, West Village theater?” Mira shrugged a shoulder. “He could have taken the girl to Coney Island, to Times Square, to a dozen places a young man of her same sphere might take a girl on a date. But he didn’t.”
“Because, like stealing art pieces or electronics, it would be beneath him to munch on a soy dog in Coney Island.”
“Mmm.” Mira nibbled on salad. “He isn’t looking for glory, fame or attention. He isn’t looking for sex or even wealth in the traditional sense. He’s looking for something very specific.”
“Alex Crew had a son.”
Mira’s brows winged up. “Did he?”
“A kid at the time this all went down.”