by J. D. Robb
“Arianna Whitwood, down in the gardens,” Eve told her. “Did you get anything?”
“He was in love with Darnell,” Peabody said as they headed down again. “He didn’t hesitate to tell me, or that he thought maybe she felt something back. No alibi, but he gives off this gentle, kind of sweet vibe. I can’t see him slaughtering three people.”
“On the other hand, he and everyone in that lab knew all three vics, and where they were squatting. At least two of them—and I’d add Rosenthall as a third—had been there, knew the setup. That weighs. There are going to be others who knew them and the setup from Get Straight, and Slice. This wasn’t random.”
“No. Random doesn’t fit.”
“Because?”
“Oh boy, a quiz. Deliberate break-in through the back, and the other killers—because I can’t see it being one guy—got into the front, attacked them in a frenzied but systematic manner. Wrecked the place, but as far as we know took nothing but their ’links—and at least one of them had the protective gear, so no blood on his—or their—clothes. It’s most probable they brought the weapons—a knife, scalpel, and some sort of bludgeoning tool—with them. Prepared, premeditated, and target specific.
“Did I pass?”
“Not bad.” They passed through an atrium on the main level and into the burgeoning gardens. “Not bad at all,” Eve said with a look around.
“Totally mag. Peaceful. Kind of Zen. Look, butterflies.” A smile broke over Peabody’s face. “Butterflies just make you happy.”
“They’ve got that buggy body and those creepy little antennas. People don’t think about that because they get distracted by the wings. I always wonder if they have teeth. They must have tiny, sharp little teeth.”
“You’re not spoiling my happy.”
Eve took the path marked Meditation Garden, angled through blossoms and butterflies. She saw Arianna on one of the stone benches, the diamond on her left hand on fire in the streams of light. She wore a leaf-green suit with a foam of lace and high, razor-thin heels of the same color that showcased long legs. Her hair, a rich, nutty brown, was wound up in some complicated twist that left her exceptional face unframed. Everything about her said classic and class, and reminded Eve of Mira.
At their approach, Arianna turned her head. Her eyes, a color caught somewhere between green and brown, sparked with anger.
She rose.
“Lieutenant Dallas. I’d hoped to meet you, but not like this. Detective Peabody. Can we sit?” She did so, folded her hands again. “I wanted to talk to you here. I’d hoped to find some quiet here. But not yet.”
“You were the therapist for all three victims,” Eve began.
“Yes. They would have made it. I believe that. On a professional and personal level, I believe Coby and Wil would have made it. I know Jen would have. She’d come so far in such a short time. She’d found the quiet.”
“Dr. Rosenthall used that term. The quiet.”
“Yes, I guess I picked it up from him.” Arianna laid a hand on her heart. “Addiction is never quiet. It’s violent or sly or seductive. Often all three. But Jen found her quiet and her strength, and was helping Coby and Wil find theirs.”
“Other addicts, not making such progress, might resent them for theirs.”
“That’s true. They would have told me if anyone was pressuring them, threatening them. Jen was addicted to heroin, preferred it in the mix they call Chill on the street. She often bartered her body for hits. Her mother was the same, her father was her mother’s dealer—she thinks.”
“She did some time in the system,” Eve put in. “Juvie, group homes, foster homes.”
“Yes. She had a troubled, difficult childhood. Jen ran off when she was sixteen, and continued that troubled, difficult life up until nearly four months ago when she woke up after a binge. She’d lost three days, and came back to herself covered in cuts, bruises, filth, her own vomit in some basement flop with no recollection of how she’d gotten there. She got out, began to walk. She thought of the next score, thought of just ending her life, and she came to Get Straight. Instead of walking on, trying for the next score, or ending her life, she went in.”
“This wasn’t her first try at rehab.”
“No.” Arianna turned her head to meet Eve’s eyes. “She’d had three court-assigned rehabilitations, and none of them took. This time, she chose. She walked in on her own. She was ready to be helped, and they helped her. Justin and I were there that day. She often said that was the beginning for her. When we met.”
Arianna looked away again as her voice roughened.
“Withdrawal is hard and painful, but she never gave up. She brought Coby in. We encourage recoverings to sever ties with people who are part of their addiction, but she wouldn’t listen. She saved Coby, simply because she wouldn’t give up on him either, and then Wil. They loved her, and their love for her and each other proved stronger than the addiction. That’s a kind of miracle. And now . . .”
“Did they tell you about anyone who concerned them, who gave them any grief, put any pressure on them to use again?”
“No. None of them had any family, no one they were close to or had contact with, not for a long time. They formed friendships, associations at the Center, and at Get Straight. They were still in the honeymoon stage, so happy to be where they were, so happy to have each other.”
“Were they intimate?”
“No, not sexually. Jen and Coby had been, if you can call it intimacy, when they were both using. What they’d formed now was a family, so they lived that way. For Jen, sex had been that bartering tool, or something to do with another addict. She’d become desensitized about sex. I think she was beginning to feel normal and natural urges. She was attracted to Pach—Pachai Gupta—and he to her. But neither of them moved on it.”
“How can you be sure?”
“She would have told me. Honesty had become a vital tool for her in recovery, and she trusted me. They’d made a vow—Jen, Coby, and Will—to abstain for six months, to focus on themselves as individuals. Coby joked about it. He was funny, sharp. He’d used that charm and wit to survive on the streets. Now he used it to keep himself and his friends steady. Wil went the more spiritual route. He’d lived with his great-grandmother until she died, and she’d taken him to church. He’d started to go back. Jen and Coby went with him a few times, but more for friendship than interest.”
“What church?”
“Ah . . . Chelsea Baptist.”
“Where else did they go routinely, do routinely?”
“They liked to hang out at the Twelfth Street Diner, drink coffee, and talk. They all put in time at Get Straight, attending meetings, taking on chores—cleaning, organizing donations—that’s part of the program. They attended group there, too, as well as here. They’d see a vid now and then, but primarily they worked—saved their money toward finding a place to live—concentrated on the program, studied. Or Jen did. She was taking a business class.”
“You gave them permission to live in the building?”
“Yes. Justin asked me, and we thought it would give them a breather, allow them to live on their own, save, stay close to the Center. The stipulation was they had to keep the place, and themselves, clean. They did.”
“You visited them there?”
“Either Justin or I would drop by once a week. Spot-check,” she said with the first hint of a smile. “We trusted them. But you can’t trust the addiction.”
“Arianna!”
The sharp call sliced through the quiet garden. A man, tall, his dark hair cropped close to a tanned face, hurried toward them. His eyes, a green as sharp as his voice, were all for Arianna. Ignoring Eve and Peabody, he grabbed her hands, got to his knees.
“I heard what happened. What can I do for you?”
“Eton.” Tears shimmered in her eyes. Eve saw her bear down against them. “I was going to tell you myself, but I needed to speak with the police. Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, my associat
e, Eton Billingsly.”
“The police.” He shot Eve a disgusted look. “At a time like this?”
“Murder usually brings the cops.”
“It’s hardly necessary to interrogate Arianna at all, and particularly before she’s had time to process.”
“Okay. Let’s interrogate you. Where were you between one and four a.m. this morning?”
He blustered. Eve couldn’t think of another word for the sounds he made or the look on his face as he sprang to his feet. “I’m not answering any of your insulting questions, and neither is Arianna.”
“Oh yeah, you are,” Eve corrected, “here or at Cop Central. Your choice.”
“Eton.” Arianna rose. “Stop now. You’re upset. The police are trying to find out who hurt Jen and the boys, and why.”
“They’ll hardly find out here, with you.” He took her hands again. “Justin should never have allowed it.”
“Justin doesn’t allow anything.” Gently, but deliberately, Arianna drew her hands away.
“You’re right, of course. But it’s natural to want to shield you from this kind of ordeal. I know how much you’d invested in these recoverings.”
“I haven’t heard an answer yet, Mr. Billingsly.”
“Dr. Billingsly,” he snapped at Eve. “And at that time of the morning, I was home in bed.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“What was your relationship with the victims?”
Perhaps due to the fact that his face went red, Arianna answered for him. “Eton is one of our psychologists. He specializes in hypnotherapy. The process can help them through withdrawal, give them focus, and can often help them bring the root of their addiction to the surface.”
“So, did you do the ‘you’re getting sleepy’ with the victims?” Eve asked him.
“Yes.”
“And?”
“As Arianna can tell you, they were making excellent, even exceptional, progress.”
“When’s the last time you had contact with them—each of them?”
“I’d have to check my book. I can hardly remember off the top of my head.”
“Do that. Did you ever visit the building where they were living?”
His lips thinned. “No. Why would I? Instead of wasting time here, you should be out on the street, looking for the maniacs who did this. It’s obviously the result of violent addicts, people they associated with before they began the program.”
“Nothing’s obvious at this point. You’ve been very helpful,” she said to Arianna.
“Can you let us know when . . . Justin and I would like to arrange a memorial. We’d like to arrange for their remains.”
“Arianna,” Billingsly began.
“Eton, please. It’s little enough.”
“I’m required to inform the next of kin,” Eve told her. “I’ll be in touch once I have. You have transcripts of your sessions with them. They could help me. Doctor-patient privilege doesn’t apply when the patients are dead.”
“I’ll have them sent to you this afternoon. I’ll show you the way out.”
“We’ve got it, thanks.”
As they walked away, Eve glanced back. Eton had her hands again, his head bent toward hers as he talked rapidly.
“Asshole,” was Peabody’s opinion.
“Big, flaming asshole with a big, flaming temper. Looks like he keeps in good shape. Bet he puts in plenty of gym time. And he wants Arianna Whitwood for his own.”
“Oh yeah, and she doesn’t want him for hers.”
“That’s a pisser for him. I bet she gave the vics a lot more of her time, attention, and affection than she gives Billingsly, which is another pisser for him.”
“Killing the hell out of them doesn’t change that. Would be a pretty murky motive.”
“Maybe, but I really hate him already. Plus, hypnotherapy. Who knows what he’s up to with that?”
“Why didn’t you ask for his transcripts?”
“Because he wouldn’t give them up, not without a warrant, which you’re going to put in the works while we head over to Get Straight.”
“Oooh, that’s going to be another pisser for Billingsly.”
“I can only hope it’s not the last.”
Four
They got little more from Get Straight but confirmation of everything they’d heard before, and more grief. Even as they stepped out into the air holding the first faint hint of fall, Eve’s com signaled. She recognized the first on scene on her screen.
“Officer Slovic.”
“Sir, we dug up a wit claims she saw someone near the rear of the crime scene, and observed him stuffing something in the recycler where we found the bloody protective gear.”
“That’s a break. How good a look?”
“She claims a good, solid one. There’s a streetlight, and she states she saw him clearly, and he was dancing.”
“Sorry?”
“That’s her statement, Lieutenant.” Eve heard the shrug in his voice. “Her description’s pretty strange, but she’s sticking to it, and doesn’t strike me as a whack job. Her apartment’s got a good view of the area, and she was up walking her kid—kid’s teething. She’s a short-order cook on parental leave. We got her on the canvass.”
“What did she see?”
He cleared his throat. “A monster. Possibly a demon.”
“Officer Slovic, are you actually wasting my time on this?”
“Sir, I wouldn’t, but she gave details, she had the time down, and she admits it sounds crazy.”
“Give me the details.”
“Male, medium build—she thinks—dark hair, wild and stringy.” He made the throat-clearing sound again. “Greenish skin, red, bulging eyes, contorted features, and prominent teeth, wearing a black cape and carrying a black satchel.”
“And this green, red-eyed monster was dancing in the streetlight.”
“And laughing, sir, in what the wit describes as a wild, guttural laugh. I believe her, Lieutenant, I mean about what she saw. It could be the subject was wearing a mask or a disguise.”
“Yeah.” Eve heaved out a sigh. “Will she work with an artist?”
“She’s anxious to.”
“Contact Detective Yancy at Central, and get her to him.”
“Yes, sir.”
She shoved the com into her pocket. “A green, red-eyed, cape-wearing monster.”
“Or possibly demon,” Peabody put in and earned a sneer. “I’m not saying I believe in monsters and demons, but somebody hyped up on Zeus, say, convinced he is one, gets in the gear to top it off. Since the wit only saw one man, and the evidence leans toward one man—he’d have to be hyped on something. Zeus not only makes you crazy, but it deadens you to pain, pumps the adrenaline.”
“Maybe. We’ll see it through.” She checked the time. “I want you to go by Slice, talk to the boss, the coworkers, and do the same at the twenty-four/seven. You can round it off with the diner they used as a hang spot. Maybe they had some trouble last night, or somebody followed them home. I’m going to swing by the morgue, see what Morris can give us. We’ll hook up back at Central.”
“I’d sure as hell rather go to a pizza joint than the morgue. Want me to bring you a slice?”
“No . . . maybe. Yeah.”
Eve slid behind the wheel and headed for the morgue.
Zeus was a good fit, she thought, but not a perfect one. It fit the violence, the frenzy of it. But not the calculation. Still, a blend . . . and some enterprising soul was always coming up with a new and improved in the illegals game.
Flying on Zeus, a man could hack, beat, choke—and laugh his ass off while doing it. But he couldn’t plan—costume, satchel with weapons and protective gear, gloved or sealed hands. She didn’t expect the sweepers to gift wrap the killer’s prints for her.
He’d broken in through the back window, Eve thought, bringing the scene back into her head. Need a tool for that, in the satchel. Climb in, nice and quiet—something else tha
t didn’t fit the Zeus, not pure Zeus. Bathroom, back room all neat and tidy, so the killer had moved straight into the front of the shop and the vics.
Target specific, premeditated, planned. She was sure of it.
Motive was a murky area.
She considered, rejected, fiddled with various theories through downtown traffic, then let them simmer as she walked into the white tunnel of the morgue.
Morris wore a gray suit and a strong red tie. The choice cheered her a little. His wardrobe rarely varied from black since the murder of his lover. The band twined through his braid of dark hair matched the tie.
His long, clever eyes met hers over the open body of Jennifer Darnell. Through the speakers, a sax wailed out a jazzy riff.
“I see you got me a triple-header.”
“The monster did it.”
“Not difficult to believe, given the condition of these young people. There’s internal abuse, self-inflicted from years of illegals ingestion, poor diet. They lived hard for their short time. I found signs of recovery and reversal. If they’d lived and kept clean, they should have done well enough.”
“Were they keeping clean?”
“Knowing you’d ask, I ran and rushed the tox screen first, and they were. Their last meal, which I assume they shared about midnight, was pizza, a diet cola for the girl, straight cola for the boys.”
“Sexual activity, consensual or forced?”
“No. Victim one—in order of TOD—suffered multiple broken bones and ribs, some of them postmortem. COD would be a fractured skull. He’d literally had his brains bashed in. By a bat or pipe, some three inches in diameter, and extreme force. I found some paint flakes in the wounds. I’ve sent them to the lab.”
“Head blow first?” Eve speculated.
“From my reconstruction, which is still preliminary, yes. A blow here.” Morris tapped the side of his hand diagonally over his right temple. “It would have knocked him out cold. It’s unlikely he felt the rest.”
“Small favor.”
“Victim two, multiple stab wounds inflicted with a jagged-edged blade, some four inches in length. Not a hunting or carving knife. More likely an inexpensive meat knife. The tip broke on bone, and that’s at the lab as well. He was stabbed first center of the chest, two strikes, and once in the abdomen. Again, from my prelim, the rest of the wounds came several minutes later.”