by J. D. Robb
“It troubles you, all of this. The genetics of it.”
“Maybe it does. But that only makes me more determined to put her away. She had a pretty good life from what I can see. Parents who stuck, a decent home. She tossed it. Some people are just born fucked up. I know that.”
She studied Grady’s photo on her board. “Maybe she was, maybe she was always going to go bad—even without knowing Ricker, without knowing she came from him. And maybe needing to know where she came from and finding out turned her, just enough. Just enough so she kept going, and couldn’t go back. I’m curious.”
“Will it make a difference in what you do?” Mira asked her. “Or how you handle what you’ve done, afterward?”
“No to the first. I’m not sure to the second. I’m not going to say taking her down isn’t personal, because it is. Because she’s a cop, because of Ricker. Because of Morris and because of Coltraine. It’s personal, right down the line.”
“And it’s easier, clearer, to take the steps, do what has to be done when it’s not. Or not this personal.”
Eve met Mira’s eyes and spoke calmly, coolly. “I want to hurt her, to use my hands on her, get her blood on them. I want that for all the reasons I just said. And I want it just for me.”
“But you won’t.”
Eve shrugged. “I guess we’ll see.”
“You won’t jeopardize the case for your own satisfaction, however much you’d enjoy it. That alone should answer one of your questions, Eve. Genetics stamp us, we can’t deny it. But we build from there. At the end of the day you’ll do what needs to be done, for all the reasons you named. But at the core of it, at the heart, you’ll do what needs to be done for Amaryllis Coltraine.”
“I didn’t give her a chance, you know?”
“In what way?”
She let out a breath, shoved at her hair. “When she was alive, with Morris. I didn’t give her a chance. It kind of irritated me for some reason that he was stuck on her. Stupid.”
“Not stupid, really. You didn’t know her, and you’re very attached to him.”
“Not that way.”
Mira smiled. “Not that way. But you’re not one who trusts quickly, or easily. God knows. You didn’t trust her yet.”
“I’ve been having dreams, kind of conversational dreams with her. It’s weird. Weird because I know it’s my head holding both ends of the conversation, but . . . I had this thought the other night at the shower deal. This thought that I guess comes out of those weird conversation dreams. I think I would’ve liked her okay if I’d given her more of a chance, when there was a chance. I think if that shower deal had been another six months or so down the road, she’d have been there.”
“It’s harder knowing that.”
“It’s fucking brutal actually.”
“Dallas. Sorry, Dr. Mira.” Peabody poked her head in the door. “Alex Ricker’s on his way in.”
“Good. Set up for interview.”
Wait’s over, she thought.
21
ALEX SAT WITH HIS COMPLEMENT OF LAWYERS while Eve and Peabody set up, while Eve engaged the recorder and read off the salients. Though she’d Mirandized him before, she did so again.
“Questions?” she asked pleasantly. “Comments? Snide remarks?”
As she expected, the head suit went into a prepared riff on Mr. Ricker’s voluntary presence, on his willingness to cooperate, the previous examples of his cooperation. She let it run through, then nodded.
“Is that it? All finished now? Or would you like to give examples of Mr. Ricker’s kindness to the little orphaned children and small puppies?”
Harry Proctor looked down his important nose. “I’ll make a note of your sarcasm and discourteous attitude.”
“My partner here keeps them on disc.”
“I can get you a copy,” Peabody offered.
“And here’s what I’m making a note of. The cooperative and civil-minded Mr. Ricker comes into interview with not one, not two, but three—count them, three—lawyers. Makes me wonder just what you’ve got to worry about, Alex.”
“I believe in being prepared, particularly when it comes to the police.”
“I bet you do. But, golly, it’s strange that someone who’s prepared, a businessman of your . . . caliber would be, as he claims, oblivious to the machinations—don’t you love that word, Peabody?”
“Top-ten favorite.”
“Let’s say it again, to the machinations of his personal assistant and longtime best pal, Rod Sandy. That you’d just be blissfully ignorant of Sandy and your father’s plotting and planning. It makes you kind of an idiot, doesn’t it?”
It got a rise of color along his cheekbones, but Alex’s voice remained neutral. “I trusted Rod. My mistake.”
“Oh boy, wasn’t it just? We’re talking years here, Alex. Your boyfriend’s been socking away money your daddy paid him to spy on you, to pass info on. You can probably think back to a deal that didn’t pan out the way you wanted, and wonder if it’s because your old man had the inside track and felt like screwing with you.”
“Am I in here to admit a trusted friend used me for his own gain, and my father enjoys complicating my life? Admitted. Freely. Is that all?”
“Not even close. It’s got to piss you off.”
“Again, freely admitted.”
“In your shoes I’d want some payback.” Eve gave Peabody a speculative glance. “If my partner here worked me that way and I found out? She couldn’t run far or fast enough.”
“And I can run pretty fast given the right incentive.”
“I’d make her pay for it. How do you think I’d make you pay for it, Peabody?”
“In the most painful and humiliating way possible.”
“See how well we know each other? The difference in the situations and personalities as I see it is I wouldn’t end her. I’d want her to hurt and fear me for a long, long time. But we all have our different definition of fun. Did you have fun killing Sandy, Alex?”
“That accusation—”
Alex simply lifted a hand to cut the lawyer off. “Rod’s dead? How?”
She’d kept a lid on it and saw now she’d been right to do so. He hadn’t known, Eve thought. His network hadn’t found Sandy, or hadn’t been ordered to look quite deep enough. “I’m asking the questions. He betrayed you, made a fool of you, now he’s dead. That’s a one plus one equals two kind of deal around here. Of course, that’s if we believe you were the goat.”
She tipped back casually in her chair. “We could speculate that you and Sandy were duping your father. Take his money and Sandy feeds him what you want him to eat. You’re smart enough to do that.”
“It’s exactly what I would have done, if I’d known.”
“You’re in a tough spot here, Alex. Say you knew and it could take you off the hook on Sandy’s murder. But say you knew, and—since he’s implicated in Coltraine’s murder—that could tie you to a cop killing. Say you don’t know, and you come off a fool who’d probably want some of his own back.”
“Lieutenant Dallas,” Proctor began, “my client can hardly be held responsible for the actions of . . .”
Eve didn’t bother to listen, didn’t bother to interrupt. She just kept looking at Alex. It was Alex who finally shut the lawyer down, and leaned toward Eve. “I don’t know when my father got his hooks into Rod. I intend to find out, but I don’t know how long ago. I don’t know why Rod betrayed me for money. Now I’ll never know. You may not think the why would be important. It’s essential to me. I didn’t want Rod dead. I wanted to know why, I wanted to know if he had anything, anything at all to do with Ammy’s death. I wanted to look in his face and know if he could’ve done that to her, to me. And why.”
“He not only could have, he did. Why? Money’s often enough. Add sex and the potential for power, and you’ve got it all. Hell, Alex, he’s probably been banging your sister regularly since college.”
“I don’t have a sister, so the supposition
is—”
“Christ, Peabody, maybe he is just an oblivious idiot.” Eve pulled out Cleo Grady’s photo, tossed it on the table. “Not much family resemblance, but that’s understandable with half sibs.”
Alex stared at the photo, and Eve watched his color fade shade by shade. “Get out,” Alex said to the lawyers. “All of you, get out.”
“Mr. Ricker, it’s not in your best interest to—”
“Get out now, or you’re fired.” He stared at Eve as the lawyers packed up their briefcases and left the room. “If you’re lying about this, if you’re playing me on this, I’ll use every means at my disposal to have your badge.”
“Now I’m scared.”
“Don’t fuck with me!”
It was the anger, the raw emotion through it, that gave Eve some of the answers she’d wanted. “We’ll remain on record. You have dismissed your attorneys?”
“Yes, I’ve damn well dismissed them. Tell me who this is, and what she has to do with me.”
Morris opened the door of Ammy’s apartment for Cleo Grady. She stepped forward, said only, “Morris,” and gave him both her hands.
“I’m sorry I pulled you into this, Cleo. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Don’t be. You shouldn’t try to do this alone. She was my friend. I want to help.”
She sounded so sincere, he thought. With just the slightest catch in her voice. How easy it would be to believe her, if he didn’t know. He shifted to let her inside, closed the door. “I don’t know if I could do it alone. But when her family asked, I . . . They don’t want to come back here. I can’t blame them. But going through her things, packing them up . . . There’s so much of her. And none of her.”
“I can take care of it. I’ve got the personal time coming. My LT knows I’m here today. Why don’t you let me deal with this, Morris? You don’t have to—”
“No, I said I would. I’ve started, but I keep, well, bogging down.” Successful lies, Morris thought, were wrapped in truth. “The police still have her electronics, her files, but I started on her clothes. Her family told me to keep whatever I wanted, or to give what I thought appropriate to her friends here. How do I know, Cleo? How can I?”
“I’ll help you.” She stood, looked around the living room. “She always kept her space nice. Here, at work. Made the rest of us look like slobs. She’d want us to put her things away, nice, if you know what I mean.”
“With care.”
“Yeah, with care.” She turned to him. “We’ll do that for her, Morris. Do you want to finish the clothes first?”
“Yes, that’s probably best.” He led the way into the bedroom where he had painfully begun the process of packing Ammy’s things. Now he continued the task with the woman he believed had murdered his lover.
They spoke of her, and other things. He looked straight into Cleo’s eyes as she folded one of Ammy’s favorite sweaters. He could do that, Morris thought. He could let this woman touch Ammy’s things, speak of her, move around the room where he and Ammy had been intimate, had loved each other. He could do whatever he needed to do, and for now—at least for now—feel nothing.
A twinge, just a twinge cut through when she began to box and wrap jewelry.
“She always knew just what to wear with what.” Cleo’s eyes met his in the mirror, smiled. “It’s a talent I don’t share. I used to admire . . . oh.” She held up a pair of small, simple silver hoops. “She wore these a lot, for work anyway. They’re so her, you know? Just exactly right, not too much, not too little. They’re just . . . her.”
It hurt, heart and gut. But he did what he had to do. “You should have them.”
“Oh, I couldn’t. Her family—”
Bitch, he thought as he watched her. You cold bitch. “Her family told me to give what was appropriate to friends. She’d want you to have those since they remind you of her.”
“I’d really love to, if you’re sure. I’d love to have something of hers.” Tears sheened her eyes as she smiled. “I’ll treasure them.”
“I know you will.”
There were so many ways to kill, he thought, as they closed and sealed boxes. Slow, painful ways, quick, merciful ways. Obscene ways. He knew them all. Did she? How many ways had she killed?
Had she felt anything when she’d taken Ammy’s life? Or had it been simply a task to be done, like sealing a box for shipment? He wanted to ask her that, just that single thing. Instead, he asked if she’d like coffee.
“I wouldn’t mind, actually. Why don’t I get it? I know where everything is.”
When she went out to the kitchen, he followed as far as the living room and crouched in front of the droid kitten. He activated it, then stepped away to carry boxes and protective wrap to a chair.
He began, meticulously, to wrap the pale green glass vase she’d used for the roses he’d sent her. And the kitten mewed, as programmed. It stretched its silky white body as Cleo came back with the coffee.
“Thanks.” He kept his hands full—coffee, wrapping—while the kitten wound through Cleo’s legs.
“She loved this thing.” Cleo looked down as the kitten gave a plaintive meow and stared up at her with adoring eyes. “She just loved it. Will you keep it?”
“I suppose I will. I haven’t thought that far yet.”
Cleo laughed a little as the kitten continued to rub, meow, stare. “Do droids get lonely? You’d swear it’s desperate for a little attention.”
“It’s programmed for companionship, so . . .”
“Yeah. Okay, okay.” Cleo set down the coffee, bent down.
Morris continued to wrap even as he held his breath.
“It is kind of sweet if you go for this sort of thing. And she did. She bought it little toys, and the cat bed.” Cleo picked up the kitten. Gave it a stroke. Cursed.
“Don’t tell me it scratched you.” Morris put aside the wrapping to go to her.
“No, but something did.” Cleo held up her hand, and blood welled in a shallow cut on her index finger. “Something on the collar.”
“Damn rhinestones.” His own blood pumped hot, but his tone, his touch were both easy as he took Cleo’s wounded hand. “It’s not deep, but we’ll clean it up.”
“It’s nothing. A scratch.”
“You should wash and protect it.” He took a handkerchief out of his pocket, dabbed at the blood. “She’ll have what you need in the bathroom. Doctor’s orders,” he said.
“Can’t argue with that. I’ll be right back.”
He folded the cloth, tucked it into an evidence bag. He removed the collar from the droid, studied—just for a moment—the faint smear of blood on the glittery stones he’d sharpened himself. And he bagged it as well.
Then he picked up the kitten, nuzzled it. “Yes, you’ll come home with me. You won’t be alone.”
When Cleo came back in, he was sitting in one of Ammy’s living room chairs. “All right?” he asked.
“Good as new.” She held up her finger with the clear strip on the tip. “Where’s the cat?”
“I turned it to sleep mode.” He gestured absently toward the ball of white on its pillow. “Cleo, I want to thank you again for all you’ve done today. It’s been more help than you know. But I have to stop, for now. I think I’ve done all I can do in one day.”
“It’s a lot.” She walked over, laid a hand on his shoulder.
He wanted to surge out of the chair, close his own hands around her throat and ask his single question. What did you feel when you killed her?
“Do you want me to come back tomorrow, help you with the rest?”
“Can I contact you? I’m just not sure.”
“Absolutely. Anytime, Morris. I mean it. Anything you need.”
He waited until she’d gone before he balled his hands into fists, kept them balled and tried to envision all his rage inside them. When his communicator beeped twice—McNab’s all-clear—he rose. He walked over to pick up the sleeping kitten, its pillow, its toys.
He took them an
d nothing else from the home of the woman he loved. But the blood of her murderer.
In the interview room, Eve faced Alex across the table. “You want me to believe your father never told you that you have a half sib?”
“I want to know why you seem to believe I have one.”
“Did you ever see Sandy with this woman?”
“No.”
“You answered awfully quick, Alex. You’ve known Sandy since college, but you’re absolutely sure you’ve never seen him with this woman.”
“I don’t recognize her. If you’re trying to tell me she and Rod had a relationship, I didn’t know about it. I haven’t met every woman he’s ever been with. Why do you think she’s my sister?”
“Her mother was involved with your father.”
“For Christ’s sake—”
“Your father sent this woman to college. Paid the whole shot,” she continued as she saw annoyance turn to bafflement. “She did six months at University of Stuttgart. Big rival of your alma mater’s, right? Football rivals. Take another look.”
“I tell you I’ve never seen this woman before in my life.”
“Maybe you ought to think back to college. Sophomore year, and the big game. You made the varsity. Your pal was still a benchwarmer.”
“We weren’t . . .”
“Pals yet.” Eve smiled.
“We knew each other. Of course. We were friendly enough.”
Eve took out another photo, one of Cleo when she’d been eighteen. “Try this one, taken back in the day.”
“I don’t . . .” But he trailed off.
“Yeah, she looks different there. Younger, but that’s not all. Lots of long blond hair. The face is fuller. She looks girlier, fresher. Ring any bells?”
“You’re talking about more than ten years ago. I can’t remember every woman I’ve met or seen.”
“Now you’re lying to me. Fine, we’ll just move on.”
He slapped his hand on the photo before Eve could pick it up. “Who is she?”
“I ask the questions, you answer them. Now do you remember her?”
“I’m not sure I do. She looks like someone I saw around, during that time. With Rod. We were becoming friends, real friends. I saw him with her a few times, or someone who reminds me of her. I asked him about her, since we were starting to hang quite a bit—and, frankly, I liked the look of her. He was cagey, wouldn’t say more than she went to Stuttgart. I only remember because I called her Miss Mystery. Just a lame joke between us that lasted for months. Long enough that I remember it, and her. She’s not my sister.”