by J. D. Robb
“Of course, as matron of honor, you’ll have certain duties.”
“What? Duties? You stand there in a fancy dress, probably holding a bunch of flowers.”
He patted her shoulder as they turned into her office. “You keep thinking that, darling, for as long as it comforts you.”
She scowled, pulled at her hair. “It’s like Mavis having a baby, isn’t it? I have to do all this stuff because they’re doing all this stuff, which is completely—when you think about it—their stuff, but it gets to be my stuff because somehow or other they got to be my stuff.”
“The fact I followed that clearly from point to point proves you’re my stuff.”
“I’m not thinking about it. I’m just not. It makes the backsides of my eyes ache. Computer, display last run.”
Blowing out a breath, she dropped down at her desk to get back to murder. That was the stuff she understood.
Shortly after one A.M., she roused when Roarke slid an arm under her knees. “Damn it, I dropped out. Just for a minute. You don’t have to…” But when he picked her up, she shrugged a shoulder. “Okay, what the hell. I got two more possibles. Not as strong as Petrelli, but possibles.
“Mmm.” Her voice was slurry, a sign she’d not only hit the wall but slid bonelessly under it.
“Need interviews, then could run some probabilities. Gotta hammer the crack,” Eve continued.
“Absolutely. I’ll fetch you a nice big hammer first thing in the morning.”
“Got hundreds left to run. Longer it takes, longer she has to patch up the damn hole. Not going to run though, no sir, not going to run.”
“No, indeed.” He carried her up to the bed, laid her down. As he started to unbutton her jeans, she sat up, patted his hand away.
“I can do it. You get ideas.”
“Yet somehow I can resist them when my wife’s all but comatose. Heroic of me.”
She smiled sleepily as she wiggled out of the jeans. “Better not forget that, ’cause I’m sleeping naked.” She tossed aside the sweatshirt, then climbed under the fluffy duvet. “Gonna nail it down,” she murmured as she snuggled in. “It’s coming around, I can feel it, and I’m going to nail it down.”
“There’s that hammer again.” He slid in beside her, draped an arm around her waist. “Pick it up tomorrow, Lieutenant. Time to lay the tools down for the night.”
“Bet she sleeps like a baby. I bet she…Shit!” She flopped over in bed so quickly, Roarke had to shoot down a hand to catch her knee.
“Mind the jewels, then.”
“He had traces of over-the-counter sleep aid in him.”
“A lot of people take sleep aids routinely. In fact, on nights such as this it’s a wonder I don’t.”
“Didn’t think about them overmuch as the trace matched with what he had in his bathroom. Just a standard. But I asked Ben and the house manager, and neither of them can confirm he was a routine user. So what if she planted them there? What if she found a way to get some into him that night.”
“When she was in St. Lucia.”
“He took vitamins—a whole buncha vitamins regularly. He had this, ah…crap, my brain—”
“Is begging you to turn it off.”
“It has to wait. He had this weekly dispenser deal. You fill up each day’s dose, so you don’t have to open a bunch of bottles or try to remember if you took the E and not the C—whatever. She could’ve pulled a switch.”
“So he fell asleep at his desk that morning, or while putting on the third green.”
“He took them at night.” She smiled in the dark. “He took them at night because he thought that helped them absorb better. That’s in my notes somewhere.”
“All right, then, she switched pills. How would you prove it, and what would you do with it should you?”
“Just another piece to poke at. I don’t remember seeing any sleep aids in her bathroom, in her night table. But she said she might take a soother, or take an aid now and then.”
“She was traveling,” he reminded her. “She might have taken them with her.”
“Yeah, I’m going to check on that. And what if—”
“Eve?”
“Yeah?”
“Remember that hammer I said I’d fetch you in the morning?”
She frowned in the dark. “Sort of.”
“Don’t make me get it now and knock you out with it.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Go to sleep.”
She frowned in the dark for another minute, but her eyes began to droop. She felt his arm go around her again, drawing her in, then the muffled thud as Galahad pounced onto the foot of the bed.
As the cat arranged himself over her feet, she dropped into sleep.
15
IN SLEEP, SHE ARRANGED THEM. THOMAS ANDERS at the center with the others fanning out like rays. Ava, Ben, Edmond and Linny Luce, Greta Horowitz, Leopold Walsh, Brigit Plowder, Sasha Bride-West.
But no. She shifted restlessly in sleep. No, that wasn’t right. He wasn’t the sun, he wasn’t the center. Not to her. He was only the vehicle, he was only the means.
Expendable, when the time was right. Steady, reliable, not very spectacular, predictable Tommy.
Left with a nice chunk of change. Dirk Bronson lounged in a deck chair behind Ava, sipping a frothy drink. Not a backward glance.
Seed money. The kickoff. The flashy lead-off batter.
Change the lineup.
In the dream, the ball field was summer green and rich brown, the white bases gleaming like marble plates. The players took that field in uniforms black as death. Brigit crouching behind the plate—catcher to Ava’s pitcher—Sasha fussing with her hair at short, Edmond at first, Linny at second, Ben playing the hot corner at third with Leopold and Greta patrolling right and left fields, respectively.
Short a man, Eve thought. They’re short a man at center field.
I’m always the center. Ava smiled, wound up, and winged a high, fast curve. At the plate, Tommy checked his swing.
Ball one.
The crowd, in their black mourning clothes, applauded politely. Nice call, ump. Eve glanced back, scanned the dugout. Even in the dream it seemed strange to see Mira in a ball cap drinking tea out of a china cup. Feeney sat on the bench in his pajamas, sneezing. He’s on the disabled list, she thought, but the rest of the team’s here. Peabody, McNab, Whitney, even Tibble. And Roarke, of course, watching as she watched.
Ava, set, glanced over her shoulder toward third. The pitch missed, low and outside. Ball two.
Ava took a bow, for the crowd, for the field. I can keep this up for years. Slow ball, fast ball, curve ball, slider. It’s not a strike until I’m ready to throw one.
She threw again, high and inside, brushing Tommy back from the plate.
Ball three.
There were mutters from the dugout, restrained hoots from the crowd. As Brigit jogged up to the mound, Ben called over to Eve, We’re playing on the wrong team. Can’t you call the game? Can’t you call it before it’s too late?
Not without more evidence, Whitney said from the dugout. No cause. You need probable cause. There are rules.
Roarke shook his head. Far too many rules, don’t you think? After all, murder doesn’t play by the rules.
Brigit jogged back, gave Tommy a pat on the cheek, then turned to Eve. She’s going to the bullpen. She needs some relief. You have to admit, it’s all a little boring this way, and she’d put in a great deal of time.
I can’t stop it, Eve thought. I can only call them as I see them.
A shadow crossed the field, an indistinct form gliding over the summer grass. No, I can’t stop it, Eve thought again. It had to play out. I can only make the call after the pitch.
I’m sorry, she said to Tommy, there’s nothing I can do.
Oh well. He smiled kindly at her. It’s just a game, isn’t it?
Not anymore, Eve thought as the shadow merged with Ava, as they set, checked, wound up together. Fast ball, dead over the plate.
&
nbsp; He lay on the rich brown dirt, the marblelike plate his headstone, and his eyes staring up at the clear blue of the sky.
On the mound, Ava laughed gaily, and took another bow for the now weeping crowd. And he’s out! Want to see the instant replay?
It might’ve been a weird dream, maybe a stupid dream, Eve thought, but she rearranged her murder board in her home office the next morning.
Take a new look, she told herself. Look with fresh eyes.
Roarke came in behind her, studied the board with his hand on her shoulder. “Making patterns?”
“It’s that damn dream.” She’d told him about it when she’d dressed. “See, she’s got her infield—the people she trusts most because she’s seen to it they trust her, or have that connection to her through Anders. She’s aiming to take him out. She’s aimed for him from the first pitch of the first inning, but they don’t see it. He doesn’t see it, even though the batter and pitcher are in an intimate, one-on-one relationship.”
“And she doesn’t throw strikes.”
“Exactly. No, no, not the first inning,” Eve corrected. “The first was Bronson—warmed up on him, got some rhythm going on him. Maybe there were others, before Bronson, between him and Anders.”
“But she struck them out, or let them get on base, then picked them off. No score, no memorable stats.”
“Yeah.” She glanced back at him. “For an Irish guy you get baseball pretty well.”
“And still you benched me in the dugout. No batter on deck, either.”
“No, no potential next batter. This ends the game. When she goes for Ben, and she will, it’ll be another game, after a nice, relaxing hiatus. She pitches, she coaches, she manages. And she’s the center.” Eve put her fingertip on Ava’s photo. “She’s always the center. She didn’t call in relief, she called in a shadow. Nobody sees, nobody knows. And the shadow just follows the steps. One strike, in this case, and he’s out.”
“And the shadow fades off, so that she—once more—remains the center. If it follows your metaphor, the late inning relief pitcher only has one job, doesn’t she? Throw the strike.”
“Exactly right. This pitcher doesn’t have to do anything but follow orders. Doesn’t have to strategize, or worry about base runners because there aren’t any. Doesn’t have to depend on the field, or even know them. Follow orders, throw the strike, fade away. No postgame interviews, no locker-room chat. One pitch, and out of the game. It’s smart,” Eve had to admit. “It’s pretty damn smart.”
“You’re smarter, slugger.” Roarke gave Eve’s hair a quick tug. “It’s going to piss her off when you step up to the plate and hit a grand slam.”
“Right now, I’d settle for a base hit. With Bebe Petrelli.”
“Ava would never have considered you’d look that deep in her lineup. And that is the end of the baseball analogies.” He turned her, kissed her. “Good luck with the former Mafia princess.”
Bebe Petrelli lived in a narrow row house on a quiet and neglected street in the South Bronx. Paint peeled and cracked like old dry skin over the brittle bones of the houses. Even the trees, the few left that used their ancient roots to heave up pieces of the sidewalk, slumped over the street. Along the block, some windows were boarded like blind eyes while others hid behind the rusted cages of riot bars.
Parking wasn’t a problem. There couldn’t have been more than a half a dozen vehicles on the entire block. Most here, Eve thought, couldn’t afford the cost and ensuing maintenance of a personal ride.
“Revitalization hasn’t hit here yet,” Peabody commented.
“Or it took a detour.”
Eve studied the Petrelli house. It looked as if it might’ve been painted sometime in the last decade—a leg up on most of the others—and all the windows were intact. And clean, she noted, behind their bars. Empty window boxes sat like hope at the base of the two windows flanking the front door.
“You said both her kids go to private school on Anders’s nickel?”
Why the empty window boxes stirred pity inside her, Eve couldn’t say. “Yeah.”
“And she lives here.”
“Smart,” Eve replied. “It’s smart. What better way to keep someone under your thumb? Give them this, hold back that. Let’s go see what Anthony DeSalvo’s girl, Bebe, has to say about Ava.”
As they walked toward the front door, Eve saw shadows move at the windows on the houses on either side. Nosy neighbors, she thought. She loved nosy neighbors in an investigation. Rich mines to plumb.
No perimeter security, she noted. Decent locks, but no cams or electronic peeps. Locks and riot bars had to serve.
She knocked.
Bebe answered herself, through the inch-wide gap afforded by the security chain. Eve saw both the wariness and the knowledge of cop in the single brown eye.
“Ms. Petrelli, Lieutenant Dallas and Detective Peabody, NYPSD.” Eve held her badge to the crack. “We’d like to come in and speak to you.”
“About what?”
“Once we’re in, we’ll talk about it. Or you can close the door and I’ll call in for a warrant that would compel you to come into Manhattan to Cop Central. Then we’ll talk about it there.”
“I have to be at work in another hour.”
“Then you probably don’t want to waste any more time.”
Bebe shut the door. Eve heard the rattle of the chain through it. When it opened, Bebe stood, tired and resentful, in a red shirt, black pants, and serviceable black skids. “You’re going to have to make this fast, and you’re going to have to talk while I work.”
With that, Bebe turned and stalked toward the back of the house.
Neat and tidy, Eve thought as she glanced at the living area. The furniture was cheap, and as serviceable as the black skids, but like the windows, clean. The air smelled fresh, with just a hint of coffee and toasted bread as they approached the kitchen.
On a small metal table sat a white plastic laundry basket. From it, Bebe took a shirt, then folded it with quick, efficient moves.
“You don’t need to sit,” she snapped out. “Say what you have to say.”
“Ava Anders.”
The hands hesitated only a second, then pulled out another shirt. “What about her?”
“You’re acquainted.”
“My boys are in the Anders sports programs.”
“You’ve attended Mrs. Anders’s seminars and mothers’ breaks. Retreats?”
“That’s right.”
“And both your boys are recipients of scholarships through the Anders program.”
“That’s right.” Bebe’s eyes flashed up at that, and some of the fear, some of the anger leaked through. “They earned it. I got smart boys, good boys. They work hard.”
“You must be very proud of them, Ms. Petrelli.” Peabody offered a hint of a smile.
“Of course I am.”
“Their school’s a clip from here,” Eve commented.
“They take the bus. Have to change and take another.”
“Makes a long day, for them and you, I imagine.”
“They’re getting a good education. They’re going to be somebody.”
“You had some rough times in the past.”
Bebe tightened her lips, looked away from Eve and back to her laundry. “Past is past.”
“The DeSalvos still have some money, some influence in certain circles.” Eve glanced around the tiny kitchen. “Your brothers could help you out, you and your boys.”
This time Bebe showed her teeth. “My brothers aren’t getting near my boys. I haven’t said word one to Frank or Vinny in years, or them to me.”
“Why is that?”
“That’s my business. They’re my brothers, aren’t they? It’s not a crime if I don’t want anything to do with my own brothers.”
“Why does Anthony DeSalvo’s only daughter hook up as an LC?”
“As a way to stick it to him, you want to know so bad. Ended up sticking it to myself, didn’t I?”
; A lock of graying hair fell over her brow as Bebe yanked out a boy’s sports jersey to fold. “He wanted me to marry who he wanted me to marry, live the way he wanted me to live. Like my mother, looking the other way. Always looking the other way, no matter what was right in her face. So I did what I did, and he didn’t have a daughter anymore.” She shrugged, but the jerkiness of the movement transmitted lingering pain to Eve. “Then they killed him. And I didn’t have a father.”
“You did some time, lost your license.”
“You think I got shit around here, with my boys in the house? You think I’m on the shit?” Bebe shoved at the laundry basket, threw her arms wide. “Go ahead, look around. You don’t need a warrant. Look the hell around.”
Eve studied the flushed face, the bitter eyes. “You know how you strike me, Bebe? You strike me as nervous as you are pissed off. And I don’t think it’s because you’re on anything.”
“You cops, always looking to screw with somebody. Except when it matters. What good did you do when they killed my Luca? Where were you when they killed my Luca?”
“Not in the Bronx,” Eve said evenly. “Who killed him?”
“The fucking Santinis. Who else? Fucking DeSalvos mess with them, they mess with us. Even if Luca and me, we weren’t the us.” She gripped the basket now, as if to steady herself. And her knuckles went as white as the plastic. “We had a decent place, a decent life. He was a decent man. We had kids, we had a business. A nice family restaurant, nothing fancy, nothing important. Except to us. We worked so damn hard.”
Bebe’s fingers tightened on, twisted a pint-sized pair of jockies before she tossed them back in the basket. “Luca, he knew where I came from, what I’d done. It didn’t matter. The past’s past, that’s what he always said. You’ve got to make the now and think about tomorrow. So that’s what we did. And we built a decent life and worked hard at it. Then they killed him. They killed a good man for no good reason. Killed him and torched our place because he wouldn’t pay them protection. Beat him to death.”
She stopped to press her fingers against her eyes. “What did you cops do about that? Nothing. The past isn’t the past with your kind. Luca got killed because he married a DeSalvo, and that’s that.”