by J. D. Robb
“What seems to be the problem, Officer?”
“Lieutenant.” Eve tapped her badge. “I’ve got no problem as long as you recognize the warrant APA Reo is showing you, and lead the way to the deposit box listed on same.”
“The privacy of our patrons, both through bank policy and federal regulations—”
“Does not supersede this duly administered warrant,” Reo interrupted. “A fact you’re fully aware of if you’re the manager of this bank. If you choose to attempt to block the execution of this warrant, Lieutenant Dallas will arrest you for obstruction.”
“As the manager of this bank, I’m obliged to contact Mr. Betz and inform him of the situation.”
“Yeah, good luck with that.” Eve rolled her shoulders. “You do that—after you take us to the box, and open it. We’re going by the minute here, right, Reo? You’ve got one minute to decide how you want to play this. Starting now.”
“It will take me longer than one minute to contact and inform Mr. Betz.”
“At the end of one minute, you’re going to be in restraints, and the only contact you’ll want to make is to your lawyer. Make that forty-five seconds.”
“I will be reporting you to your superiors. Both of you.”
But she turned on her heel, used those long strides to recross the lobby with Eve and Reo following closely behind, swiped a card over a security pad, tapped in a code.
Two steel doors parted in the middle and slid open to a small warren of rooms lined with steel boxes.
“You’re required to show your identification, and to sign the log. Again, both of you.”
While they did, the manager took the warrant and scowled over every word.
“You’ve left me no choice, but I do this under protest. Our patrons’ privacy—”
“Yeah, yeah.” Eve moved past her, following the numbers until she came to Betz’s box. “Go away.”
The woman gave a long sniff and departed, yanking a smaller steel door behind her.
Eve took out the evidence bag, took out the swipe. Before she used it, she turned on her recorder, read in the data.
The box popped out from the wall so she could lift it out, take it to a table. She slid back the lid.
“Oh my,” Reo murmured. “That’s a whole bunch of paper money.”
“It’s going to be a whole bunch of unreported-to-the-tax-guys paper money.”
“How much do you think?”
“About half a mil, ballpark.”
“That’s a very green ballpark. We’re going to need a bag.”
“Yeah, we’ll get one.” Eve lifted out stacks of hundreds, and found the collection of small, sealed bags.
“Are those—they’re locks of hair.”
“Yeah.” Eve’s stomach knotted. “Souvenirs. They’re going to be DNA matches for women he—most likely they—raped.”
“Christ have mercy, Dallas, there are dozens. They have names.”
Eve did a quick count. “Forty-nine. Forty-nine souvenirs. A lot of fuckers can’t resist taking a souvenir. And here’s one marked Charity, there are a couple of Lydias, but only one Charity, only one Carlee spelled the way MacKensie does. First names only, but it’s going to help.”
Frowning, she uncovered a large disc in a clear plastic case.
“Look at the size of that. I’ve never seen one that big.”
Eve turned it under the lights. “I’m guessing it’s old. Maybe as much as forty-nine years old. Handwritten title.”
She turned it over for Reo to read.
“‘The Brotherhood: Year One.’”
“Get that bag, will you, Reo?”
“All right.”
When Reo stepped out, closed the door again, Eve tagged Roarke.
“I’m sorry, I know you’ve got stuff.”
“The amount of which is easing up for the day. What is it?”
“I could use some help. See this?” She held up the disc so it would show on his ’link screen.
“Ah, an antique.”
“Yeah, out of Betz’s bank box in the Bronx.”
“Say that five times fast.” But Roarke didn’t smile, just kept his eyes on hers.
Did it show? she wondered. Did the sickness she felt inside show on her face?
For him it would, she thought. He’d see it.
“Listen, I—”
“Do you need me to come?”
“No, no. I— Can you jury-rig something to play this thing?”
“I can, of course. Are you going home?”
“I’ve got a couple of stops to make, then, yeah. I think I know what’s on here, and . . . I’d rather be home when I view it than asking Feeney.”
“I can be home in about ninety minutes. Sooner if you need me sooner.”
“Ninety’s great. Thanks. I’m with Reo, and I’ve got a couple things. I’ll fill you in when I see you.”
“You take care of my cop, body and soul.”
“Trying to. See you in ninety.”
She clicked off and stood staring down at the little sealed bags with the locks of hair. Stood staring and fighting off waves of revulsion.
18
“I’m not going back downtown,” Eve told Reo.
“Just take me as far as you’re going, and I’ll get a cab.” Reo made quick notes as they sped away from the bank. “Forty-nine, Dallas. Do they all have souvenirs?”
“Can’t say. Not yet.”
“I need to see what’s on that old disc.”
“When I get it transferred, I’ll send it to you. Reo, I’m taking it home, the money, too. I’ll count it on record, seal and log. But I’m not getting it into Evidence until tomorrow. Most likely tomorrow morning.”
After finishing her notes, Reo tucked her PPC away. “Dallas, not only am I not worried about you preserving the chain of evidence, that fortress you live in is at least as secure as Central.”
“Great, but I’m going to ask you to get the hair to the lab. To Harvo. That can’t wait. We need to start IDing these women.”
“I can do that. I’ll take care of that. Are you okay?”
“Forty-nine. You always think you just can’t be surprised anymore by what people do to each other. Then you are.”
“If they started that long ago, the first victim is in her sixties, most likely her late sixties. Nearly fifty years. The statute of limitations . . . She’s put it behind her. Or I hope she has.”
She’d have put it behind her, Eve thought, but it was always behind you. In a corner, in the dark. Squatting there behind you and chuckling in its throat.
“I’m trying Easterday first. With what we found, I might shake more out of him.” Eve set her teeth. “I’ll use his wife if I have to. Then I need to speak to Mr. Mira before I go home and work on this.”
“I can catch a cab from there. Do you want me to go in with you, press some prosecutor buttons before I drop the samples with Harvo?”
Eve considered. “Yeah, why not?”
She double-parked again, just didn’t give a shit, and went straight to the door.
The same woman opened it. “It’s Lieutenant . . . Dallas, correct?”
“That’s right, and APA Reo. We need to speak with Mr. Easterday.”
“Please come in. Let me get Mrs. Easterday. She’s just in the sitting room. Mr. Easterday’s resting upstairs. Can I offer you coffee or tea?” she asked as she led them into the front parlor.
“No, thanks.”
“Beautiful home,” Reo said when the woman left them. “Cheerful elegance, I guess. The fire’s nice on a day like this. So . . .” Reo pulled off her gloves. “Do you want grim or consolatory?”
“Grim works. It’s all fucking grim.”
She turned as Petra Easterday came in. “Lieutenant, do you have news? Have you fou
nd the person who killed Edward and Jonas?”
“We’re pursuing new leads. This is APA Reo.”
“Of course, please sit. How can I help?”
“We need to talk to your husband.”
“I know it’s important. He’s just so upset, as you can imagine.”
Oh yeah, Eve thought. She could imagine.
“I put my foot down about him going over to help Mandy with the arrangements for Edward, and he’s unhappy with me. But I took your warning to heart.”
“He should thank you for that. But we need to speak to him. Now.”
“All right. All right. I’ll go up and tell him. Give me a few minutes, will you? As I said, he’s unhappy with me, and I’ve left him alone to rest.”
She hurried out. Eve watched her go up the sweep of stairs, worry in every step.
“When you said you didn’t think she knew, I didn’t really buy it.” Reo took a chair. “Now I do. She’s not scared, not bitter. She’s worried for him.”
“She loves him, and she trusts him. When she finds out what he’s part of, it’s going to cut her in half. She’s another victim. You can make her number fifty.”
Eve prowled, needed to move, move, move. She glanced toward the stairs twice, was on the point of going to them, maybe up them, when Petra ran down.
“He’s gone. He’s not upstairs. I tried to reach Mandy, but she doesn’t answer. He left me a note.”
Her hand trembled as she held it out. It said only:
Forgive me.
“I don’t understand. What was he thinking? Can you look for him? If this crazy person is killing his friends—”
Slipped by the unit she had sitting on the house, Eve thought, furious with herself. She should’ve put them in the house, front and back.
“I want to look upstairs.”
“I— You don’t believe me?”
“I believe you, Mrs. Easterday. I’d like to look upstairs, have you come with me. I want you to look around, tell me if he took anything.”
“All right, whatever helps. Please hurry. I asked the house computer where he was, and it said he wasn’t in residence, and had left more than two hours ago. I know he wanted to help—his friends,” she continued as they went upstairs. “But he should be here, safe. He should be resting.”
She rushed by other rooms—guest rooms, another sort of parlor—and into a large suite.
The rich cream duvet was mussed, and the chocolate-brown throw tangled on it, as if someone had tried to rest there. A fire crackled low.
“I should have sat with him. I should have checked on him.”
“Would you check now, see if he packed anything?”
“Why would he do that?”
“Would you check?” Eve repeated.
Annoyance layered over the worry as Petra marched to a closet, flung its double doors open. Eve moved behind her, watched her open a panel in the back of the space.
“He’d have no reason to . . .”
“That’s where you keep the luggage.” Eve moved in further. “What did he take?”
“His—his Pullman. I don’t understand.” Frantic now, she pulled open one of the drawers in a cabinet. “God. The sweater his granddaughter gave him for Christmas. She made it. He loved it. And— God, I’m not sure. Some shirts. I think. I think some trousers. He packed clothes and left. I don’t understand.”
“Does he keep cash?”
“What? Yes, yes, we both do. There’s a safe . . .”
She swiveled the dresser out by a mechanism, revealed a wall safe behind it. Unlocked.
Petra pulled the door open. “It’s empty. I . . . I know he kept some cash in here, as I do in mine. The jewelry’s in another area.”
“Did you have the combination to his safe? Did you know the contents?”
“No. It’s his. I have my own. We respect each other’s— Oh God, he packed and left because he was afraid they might come here, hurt me.” Her face white with worry, she pressed fisted hands between her breasts. “You have to find him, please.”
“Home office?”
“Yes, yes, this way. Please, can’t you put out an alert? Whatever it is you do? Do I need to file a report, a request?”
“We’ll look for him,” Eve assured her. “I want your permission to bring in a search team, and your permission for our Electronic Detectives Division to take his electronics, search through them.”
“Anything that will help. I’m a lawyer’s wife, and I know I shouldn’t, but anything that helps you get him home safe. I’m going to try Jonas’s family. Maybe—”
She dashed out, left Eve and Reo alone in the office.
“He’s running.”
“He’s going to try to.”
Eve pulled out her communicator. “Dispatch. This is Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Put out a BOLO on Easterday, Marshall,” she began.
It took nearly an hour for her to set up a search team and ream out the team watching the house. She arranged for the transfer of electronics, questioned Petra, the household staff.
She watched on house security as Easterday slipped out the rear of the house with his suitcase, his face a mask of fear and guilt.
He’d been too smart to take a cab—she’d already checked. Maybe he’d caught one a few blocks away, or ordered a private car service—not his usual, as she’d checked that as well. Or maybe he’d just walked as far as he could walk and lost himself on the streets of the city.
“He doesn’t have that much of a lead,” Reo said as she waited for her cab. “You’ve got transpo stations, public and private, on alert.”
“What I’d do is hire a car from New Jersey, have it take me out of the city. Maybe back to New Jersey, or upstate, or to Pennsylvania. Then I’d hire another one to take me somewhere else. Put miles on, and then with the passport I sure as hell have with me, I’d get on a shuttle to anywhere that doesn’t have extradition with the U.S. I’d change my name, my hair, my face, and poof.”
“You’re a cop, and you could probably get away with it. He’s not thinking that clear. Here’s my cab. If you need me, just tag me.”
Eve got into her own car, and with a heavy heart drove off to question Dennis Mira again.
She didn’t expect him to open the door himself—even half expected he’d still be at the university and spare her the duty. But there he was, with his cardigan buttoned wrong and his kind green eyes smiling at her.
“Isn’t this nice. Gilly just went out to spend some time with friends, and now I have company. Come in out of the cold.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Mira.”
“You aren’t. I only had morning classes today, and was letting my thoughts circle around in difficult places.”
He took her coat before she could stop him, then just stood holding it, as if he’d forgotten what he’d meant to do.
“I won’t be long. Maybe we can just put it over the chair or something.”
“Of course, like family. Now, what can I get you?”
“Nothing. Please. Mr. Mira, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to take you into those difficult places.”
“Of course,” he said easily, and nudged her gently toward a chair. “It’s better to go straight into them than to circle around. You’ve learned something.”
“You know Frederick Betz.”
“Is he dead?”
“I don’t think so, yet. They have him, I’m sure of it. And in the course of investigating we— I found some keys. Two old standard keys and two swipes. One swipe led me to a bank box. There was a great deal of money in it.”
“Yes, I can see that with Fred. He’d squirrel cash away.”
“I also found forty-nine small sealed bags.”
“Illegals.” Now those kind eyes widened. “I would never have thought so. And being a chemist, he c
ould simply, well, mix what he wanted when he wanted it, couldn’t he?”
“Not drugs. Inside each was a lock of hair, and each bag was labeled with a different name. A woman’s first name.”
Something sagged in him—she saw it. And it broke her heart a little.
“You don’t think they’re from women who gave them willingly.”
“Mr. Mira, I believe Betz, along with Wymann, your cousin, Marshall Easterday, Ethan MacNamee, and William Stevenson formed a kind of club. What they called the Brotherhood. And I believe starting back in college they selected women, and raped them.”
“Edward,” he murmured, and stared into the fire. “I knew these men. Not well. Not very well—and I think now not at all. William Stevenson . . . Willy? Did they call him Willy?”
“Billy.”
“Yes, of course. Billy. He died, didn’t he, some time ago? I can’t quite recall.”
“Yes.”
“And Ethan—I liked him more than the others, back all those years ago. We played soccer. We played soccer for Yale, so I knew him a little better than the others. He lives in Europe, I believe.”
His gaze, full of grief, came back to hers. “You want to ask me if I knew about this?”
“No. I know you didn’t.”
“Shouldn’t I have? I knew they had secrets, and I thought . . . I honestly don’t know or remember what I thought but that I was excluded. It bruised my feelings at first when Edward would brush me off. No time for me. I rarely saw him.”
“They had a house, a private home.”
“Yes, they lived together, a kind of fraternity of their own making. Ah,” he murmured, and the sound was sorrowful. “Brotherhood.”
“Do you know where? The house, do you know where it was?”
“I’m afraid I don’t. Edward . . . He made it clear I wasn’t part of that, and while I believe they often had gatherings, parties, I wasn’t included. It was such a large campus, even then, and very strictly secured due to the Urbans, but I never visited him there.”
He looked away again, into the fire. “You believe they began this there, in that house. I see. I see why he was so cruel about it now. Why he made it clear I wasn’t part of that . . . fraternity. That brotherhood. I wish I could believe he’d been protecting me from it, but he was only protecting himself. I loved him, but I would have stopped him. I would’ve found a way.”