by J. D. Robb
"That's not going to be necessary."
"Well yeah, because if they bunk in that thing on the street or in some lot, a beat cop's going to cite them, maybe pull them in. They won't flop at Peabody's because her place is pretty tight. You've got to have an empty hotel room or apartment somewhere they can use."
"I imagine I do, yes, but..." At the door to their bedroom, he pulled her inside, toward the bed. "Eve."
She began to get a bad feeling. "What?"
"Do you love me?"
A very bad feeling. "Maybe."
He lowered his mouth to hers, kissed her soft and deep. "Just say yes."
"I'm not saying yes until I know why you're asking the question."
"Perhaps I'm insecure, and needy, and want reassurance."
"My ass."
"Yes, I want your ass as well, but first there's the matter of your great and generous and unconditional love for me."
She let him release her weapon harness, noticed he put it well out of reach before turning back and loosening the buttons of her shirt. "Who said anything about unconditional? I don't remember signing that clause in the deal."
"What is it about your body that's a constant fascination to me?" He feathered his fingers lightly over her breasts. "It's all so firm and soft all at once."
"You're stalling. And you never stall." She grabbed his wrists before he could finish the job of distracting her. "You did something. What did you ..." Realization struck, and her jaw dropped nearly to her toes. "Oh my God."
"I don't know how it happened, precisely. I really can't say how it came to be that Peabody's parents are even now tucked away in a guest room on the third floor. East wing."
"Here? They're going to stay here? You asked them to stay here? With us?"
"I'm not sure."
"What do you mean you're not sure? Did you ask them or not?"
"There's no point in getting into a snit." One must, he knew very well, switch to offense when defense was running thin. "You're the one who asked them to dinner, after all."
"To dinner," she hissed, as if they might hear her in the east wing. "A meal doesn't come with sleeping privileges. Roarke, they're Peabody's. What the hell are we going to do with them?"
"I don't know that either." Humor danced back in his eyes, and he sat and laughed. "I'm no easy mark. You know that. And I swear to you even now I'm not sure how she managed it, though manage it, she did, I'm showing them around after dinner as Phoebe wanted a bit of a tour. She's saying how nice it must be to have so many lovely rooms, and how comfortable and homey it all is despite all the size and space of it. And we're in the east wing, and she's wandering around one of the guest rooms and going to the window and saying what a wonderful view of the gardens. And look here, Sam, isn't this a beautiful view and so on. She misses her flowers, she tells me. And I say something about her being welcome to roam the garden here if she likes."
"How did you get from walking around the gardens to sleeping in the guest room?"
"She looked at me."
"And?"
"She looked at me," he repeated with a kind of baffled fascination, "and from there it's difficult to explain. She was saying how comforting it was to her and Sam to know their Delia had such good friends, generous souls and something of the like. And how much it meant to them to have this time to get to know those friends. Before I knew it I was arranging for their things to be fetched, and she was kissing me good night."
"Peabody said she has the power."
"I'm here to tell you, the woman has something. It's not that I mind. It's a big house, and I like both of them quite a lot. But, for Christ's sake, I usually know what I'm going to say before it comes spurting out of my mouth."
Amused now, she straddled him where he sat, hooked her arms behind his neck. "She put the whammy on you. I'm kind of sorry I missed it."
There, you see? You do love me."
"Probably."
She was grinning when she let him roll her into bed.
* * *
In the morning, Eve did a thirty-minute workout in the gym, and finished it off with laps in the pool. When she had the time, it was a routine that invariably cleared her mind and got her blood moving. By the time she pushed off for the tenth lap, she'd outlined her next steps in the Pettibone case.
Tracking Julianna Dunne was priority, and that meant digging through the old files, taking a hard look at patterns, associates, routines, and habits. It meant, in all probability, a trip to Dockport, to interview any inmates or guards Julianna had formed a relationship with.
Though if memory served, Julianna was very skilled at keeping herself to herself.
Next priority was motive. Who'd wanted Pettibone dead? Who'd benefited? His wife, his children. Possibly a business competitor.
A woman who looked like Bambi would have had other men in her life. That bore looking into. A former lover, jealousy. Or a long-term plan to hook the rich old guy, soak him, then eliminate him.
Then there was the ex-wife, who might have gained revenge and satisfaction in paying him back for dumping her.
Could be Pettibone wasn't the saint people were making him out to be. He might have known Julianna. He might have been one of her potential targets a decade ago, someone she'd seduced into an affair. Or she could have researched him while she was in prison, then played with him after her release.
That angle was high on her list, but it was too early to dismiss any possibility.
To know the killer, know the victim, she thought. This time she knew the killer, but to find the motive, she had to learn more about Pettibone. And reacquaint herself with Julianna Dunne.
At the end of twenty laps, feeling loose and limber, she slicked her hair back and stood in the shallows. As she started to hoist herself out, she caught a movement among the jungle of plants. Her head snapped up; her body braced.
"Well, if that's what the bad guys see before you arrest them, it's a wonder they don't fall to their knees begging for mercy."
Phoebe stepped forward, holding a towel. "I'm sorry," she added. "I know you didn't hear me come in. I got caught up watching you. You swim like a fish, in the best sense of the term."
Because she was also naked as a fish, Eve took the towel, quickly wrapped herself in it. "Thanks."
"Roarke said you'd be down here. I brought you some coffee." She took an oversized mug off the table. "And one of Sam's amazing croissants. I wanted to take a moment to thank you for your hospitality."
"No problem. You, ah, settle in okay?"
"It would be hard to do otherwise here. Do you have a minute, or are you in a rush?"
"Well, I—"
"The croissant's fresh." She held out the plate, close enough that the fragrance of it hypnotized. "Sam managed to charm Summerset into letting him use the kitchen."
"I can take a minute." Because putting on a robe would mean taking off the towel first, she sat as she was. And because Phoebe was watching her, she broke off a corner of the croissant.
"It's great." And immediately broke off another piece. "Seriously great."
"Sam's a brilliant cook. Eve—can I call you Eve? I know most don't."
Maybe it was that steady look, or the tone of voice or a combination of both, but Eve found herself wanting to squirm in her chair. "Sure, okay."
"I make you uncomfortable. I wish I didn't."
"No, you ..." She did squirm. "I'm just not good with people."
"I don't think that's true. You've been good with Delia. Exceptionally good. And don't tell me it's just the job, because I know it's not." Phoebe picked up a mug of tea, watching Eve as she drank. "There's been a change in her this past year. She's grown, as a person. Dee always seemed to know what she wanted to do, to be, but since working for you she's found her place. She's more confident, sadder in some ways, I think because of the things she's seen and had to do. But stronger for them. Her letters and calls are full of you. I wonder if you know how much it means to her that you made her a part of who
you are."
"Listen, Mrs. Peabody ... Phoebe," she corrected. "I don't—I haven't—" She blew out a breath. "I'm going to say something about Peabody, and I don't want it getting back to her."
Phoebe's lips curved at the corners. "All right. What you tell me stays between us."
"She's got a good eye and a quick brain. Most cops do, or they don't last long. She remembers things, so you don't have to waste time going over the same ground with her. She knows what it means to serve and protect, what it really means. That makes a difference in what kind of cop you turn out to be. I went a long time working solo. I liked it that way. There wasn't anybody I wanted with me after my old partner transferred to EDD."
"Captain Feeney."
"Yeah, when Feeney got his bars and went into EDD, I worked alone. Then I come across Peabody, all spit and polish and sneaky sarcasm. I wasn't going to take on a uniform. I never intended to be anybody's trainer. But... she has a spark. I don't know how else to say it. You don't see that kind of thing every day on the job. She wanted Homicide, and I figure the dead need all the spark they can get. She'd have gotten there without me. I just gave her a boost."
"Thank you. I worry about her. She's a grown woman, but she's my little girl. She always will be. That's motherhood. But I'll worry less after what you've told me. I don't suppose you'd tell me what you think of Ian McNab."
Something like panic tickled Eve's throat. "He's a good cop."
Phoebe tipped back her head and laughed until the rich, rollicking sound of it filled the room. "How did I know you'd say that? Don't worry, Eve, I like him very much, more so since he's so goofily in love with my little girl."
"Goofy covers it," Eve muttered.
"Now, I know you need to get to work, but I have a gift for you."
"You gave us a gift already."
"That was from my man and me to you and your man. This is from me to you." She bent to pick up a box she'd set on the floor, then put it in Eve's lap. "Gifts shouldn't unnerve you. They're just tokens, of appreciation or affection. In this case both. I brought it with me before I was completely sure we'd come all the way to New York. Before I was completely sure I'd give it to you. I had to meet you first. Please, open it."
With no way out, Eve took off the lid. Inside was a statue of a woman, perhaps eight inches high, carved from some nearly transparent crystal. Her head was tipped back so that her hair rained down almost to her feet. Her eyes were closed, her mouth bowed up in a quiet smile. She held her arms out to her sides, palms up.
"She's the goddess," Phoebe explained. "Carved in alabaster. She represents the strength, courage, the wisdom, the compassion that is uniquely female."
"She's terrific." Holding it up, Eve watched the light streaming through the windows shimmer on the carved figure. "She looks old, in a good way," she added quickly and made Phoebe laugh again.
"Yes, she is old, in a good way. She was my great-great grandmother's. It's been passed down, from female to female until it came to me. And now you."
"She's beautiful. Really. But I can't take her. This is something you need to keep in your family."
Phoebe reached over, laid a hand over Eve's so that they both held the statue. "I am keeping it in my family."
* * *
Her office at Central was too small for a meeting where more than two people were involved. Her call in to book a conference room resulted in a short, bitter argument and no satisfaction.
With her options narrowed, she realigned and scheduled the briefing in her home office.
"Problem, Lieutenant?" Roarke asked as he stepped from his office into hers.
"No conference rooms available until fourteen hundred? That's just bullshit."
"So I heard you say, rather viciously, into the 'link. I've a meeting myself in midtown." He crossed to her, skimmed his fingertip along the shallow dent in her chin. "Anything I can do for you before I leave?"
"I'm set."
He laid his lips on hers, lingered over them. "I shouldn't be late." He stepped back, then spotted the statue on her desk. "What's this?"
"Phoebe gave it to me."
"Alabaster," he said as he lifted it. "She's lovely. A goddess of some sort. She suits you."
"Yeah, that's me. Goddess cop." She stared at the cool, serene face of the statue, remembered being trapped in the cool, serene face of Phoebe Peabody. "She had me saying stuff. I think it's the eyes. If you want to keep your thoughts to yourself, never look directly into her eyes."
He laughed and set the statue down again. "I imagine a number of people say exactly the same thing about you."
She'd have given that some thought, but she had work to do. She called up files, slotted data on various screens, then dived back into Julianna Dunne.
She was well into a second page of fresh notes when Peabody and McNab came in. "Raid the AutoChef now," she ordered without looking up. "I want you settled when Feeney gets here."
"You got a new lead?" Peabody asked.
"I'll brief everyone at one time. I need more coffee here."
"Yes, sir." As Peabody reached for Eve's empty cup, she saw the statue. "She gave you the goddess."
She looked up now, and to her terror, saw tears swim into Peabody's eyes. McNab must have seen them, too. He muttered, "Girl thing," and hightailed it into the adjoining kitchen.
"Listen, Peabody, about that—"
"And you put it on your desk."
"Yeah, well... I figure this is supposed to come to you, so—"
"No, sir." Her voice was thick as she lifted those drenched eyes to Eve's. And smiled. "She gave it to you, and that means she trusts you. She accepts. You're family. And you put it there, right there on your desk, and that means you accept. It's a real moment for me," she added and dug out a handkerchief. "I love you, Dallas."
"Oh jeez. If you try to kiss me, I'll deck you."
Peabody gave a watery laugh and blew her nose. "I wasn't sure you'd be speaking to me this morning. Dad called and said how they were staying here."
"Your mother put the whammy on Roarke. That takes some doing."
"Yeah, I had to figure. You're not pissed off?"
"Sam made croissants this morning. Your mother brought me one, with coffee."
The grin lit Peabody's face. "So it's okay then."
"Apparently." Eve picked up her cup, pursed her lips as she looked inside. "But it seems I don't have coffee at the moment. How could that be?"
"I'll correct that oversight immediately, Lieutenant." Peabody snatched the cup, then hesitated. "Um, Dallas? Blessings on you."
"What?"
"Sorry, I can't help it. Free-Ager training. It's just... Thanks. That's all. Thanks."
CHAPTER FIVE
"Julianna Dunne." Feeney gulped coffee, shook his head. He had the lived-in face of a basset hound, the droopy eyes of a camel. His coarse ginger-colored hair, wired through with silver, looked as if it had been hacked at by some maniac with hedge sheers. Which meant it had recently been trimmed.
He sat in Eve's office, his rather stubby legs stretched out. Since he was wearing one brown sock and one black, Eve concluded his wife hadn't managed to give him the once-over that morning.
A fashion plate he wasn't. But when it came to electronics, he ruled.
"Never expected to get another shot at that one."
"We've got no prints or DNA at either the crime scene or the apartment leased to Julie Dockport to verify. But the visual—" She gestured to the split screen ID photos— "gives me an eyeball verification. I ran a probability for form, and got a ninety-nine percent that Julie Dockport and Julianna Dunne are the same woman."
"If she just got out of a cage the first part of the year," McNab commented, "she works fast."
"She works," Eve said. "She's thirty-four. By the time she was twenty-five, she'd married three men, killed three men. That we know of. On the surface, it was for profit. She targeted wealthy guys—older, established men. Each of them had been married previously and divorced.
Her shortest relationship was seven months, her longest, thirteen. Again, in each case she received a large inheritance at the spouse's demise."
"Nice work if you can get it," Peabody put in.
"She targeted each man, researched him, his background, his likes, dislikes, habits, and so on. Meticulously. We know this as we were able to locate a bank box in Chicago that contained her notes, photographs, and data on husband number two, Paul O'Hara. That's one of the bricks we used to close her up. We were never able to find similar boxes in New York or East Washington."
"Could she have had a partner?" Peabody asked. "Somebody who removed or destroyed evidence?"
"Unlikely. As far as any of the investigators were able to ascertain, she worked alone. Her psych profile corroborated that. Her basic pathology was pretty straightforward. Her mother divorced her father when Julianna was fifteen. Her stepfather was also divorced, wealthy, older, a Texas yeehaw type who called the shots at home. She claimed he sexually molested her. The police psychiatrist was unable to determine whether or not Julianna's sexual relationship—which he did not deny— with her stepfather was consensual or forced, though she leaned toward believing Julianna. In any case, as she was a minor it was abuse."
"And the main weight that kept her time down," Feeney added.
"So she's killing her stepfather." Peabody glanced back at the wall screen. "Again and again."
"Maybe."
And staring at the screen, Eve could see the child she herself had been, cowering in the corner of a cold, filthy room, mad from the pain of the last beating, the last rape. Covered in blood—his blood—with the knife she'd used to kill her father still slick and dripping in her eight-year-old hand.
Her stomach pitched, and she forced the image away.
"I never bought it." Eve kept her voice quiet, waiting for control to snap completely back into place. "She did the killing with calculation. Where was the rage, the terror, the despair? Whatever happened with her stepfather, she used it. She's a stone cold killer. She was born that way, not made."