by J. D. Robb
She glanced up, gestured at the flowers. "So. McNab came through. Where'd he steal them?"
"I don't know." Peabody sniffed them sentimentally. "Anyway, it's the thought that counts. You let my parents come in and observe. You don't like having civilians observe an interview."
"I made an exception."
"They said they were proud of me."
"You're a good cop. Why shouldn't they be proud of you?"
"It just means a lot to hear them say it. I want to thank you for sending that note in, snapping me back on track. I'd gone way off. I knew I was losing her and couldn't figure where I'd gone off."
"You picked it back up, and you got it done. How do you feel about it?"
"Good, I guess. I feel good about it." But she lowered her arms, drooping the flowers toward the floor. "Jesus, Dallas, I feel sorry for her. Her whole world's broken into little pieces. It was an accident. She's being straight about that. She worked herself up to confront Marsha, told her how she felt about Boyd. They argued, it got physical, and Marsha went down hard, hit her head. Hit it wrong. Then Maureen panics and tries to cover up."
"And they'll plead it down to Manslaughter. Manslaughter when it should be Murder Two."
"Lieutenant."
"Maybe she panicked, for a minute or two, she panicked and was sorry and shocked. But then what did she do? Does she call for help? On the slim chance Marsha Stibbs could be revived or saved, does she call for help? No, she seized an opportunity. She not only covers up the crime, but she goes just a few steps further. She plants false evidence that paints a dead woman with adultery, leaves that dead woman's husband, a man she herself claims to love, with the pain and doubt and misery of wondering if his wife could have lied to him, cheated on him, betrayed him. She casts a cloud over the life she stole so that everyone who knew Marsha Stibbs would look through that cloud and see a woman who was a cheat, so she can bide her time, pave the road, and eventually step into her place."
Eve shook her head. "Don't waste your pity on her. If you've got pity, give it to Marsha Stibbs, who had her life taken for no reason other than she had what someone else wanted."
"Yes, sir, I know you're right. I guess it just has to settle in."
"Peabody. You stood for Marsha Stibbs in that interview. You did a good job for her."
Peabody's face cleared, and so did her lingering doubts. "Thank you, Lieutenant."
"Go home, snazz yourself up for this fancy deal you've got going tonight."
"It's not end of shift."
"I'm springing you an hour early and you want to argue about it?"
"No, sir!" Peabody pulled a yellow daisy out of her bunch, offered it.
"You passing on stolen property, Officer?" Amused, Eve twirled it, then turned to her beeping interoffice 'link. "Hold on. Dallas."
"Lieutenant." Whitney's face filled the screen. "I want you and your team in my office. Fifteen minutes."
"Yes, sir. Sorry, Peabody." Eve pushed to her feet. "Want your flower back?"
* * *
Fifteen minutes didn't give Eve enough time to finish compiling and analyzing all the data to support her hunch on Julianna's personal holiday. Instead she worked out an oral pitch in her head to pursue that hunch on the way to Whitney's office.
The pitch stalled when she walked in and saw Roarke.
He sat in one of the chairs facing the commander's desk, apparently very much at home. Their gazes met, locked, and she knew instantly that whatever was going on she wasn't going to like it.
"Lieutenant." Whitney gave a quick come-ahead signal. "Officer Peabody, I'm told you closed a homicide case this afternoon, with a full confession in Interview."
"Yes, sir. The Marsha Stibbs matter."
"Good job."
"Thank you, Commander. Actually, Lieutenant Dallas—"
"Had complete confidence in Officer Peabody's ability to investigate and close this case," Eve interrupted. "That confidence was justified. Officer Peabody pursued this investigation primarily on her own time while continuing to serve as my aide and as part of the investigative team formed in the Julianna Dunne homicides. A commendation regarding this matter has been added to Officer Peabody's file."
"Well done," Whitney said while Peabody stood speechless. "Come," he called out at the knock on his door. "Captain, Detective." He nodded at Feeney and McNab.
"Nice work." Feeney gave Peabody a wink and a little arm punch as he joined them. "Roarke." He dipped his hands in his pockets, gave his bag of nuts a little rattle. Something was up, he thought, and it was bound to be interesting.
"Julianna Dunne." Whitney began with the name, pausing on it as he scanned the faces of his officers. "She has committed three homicides in this city. A fourth in another—though Denver Police and Security is ... reluctant to confirm that at this time." His lips curved, a sharp, knowing smile as he looked at Eve. "She is also responsible for seriously injuring an officer."
"Commander—"
He cut off Eve's protest with one narrowed stare. "It's fortunate you recover quickly, Lieutenant. However, these are the facts, facts that the media are actively broadcasting. Facts that this department must respond to. Two of the victims were prominent men, with prominent connections. The families of Walter Pettibone and Henry Mouton have contacted this office, and the office of Chief of Police Tibble, demanding justice. Demanding answers."
"They'll get justice, Commander. My team is actively, doggedly, pursuing all leads. An updated progress report will be in your hands by end of shift."
"Lieutenant." Whitney eased back in his chair. "Your investigation is stalled."
"The investigation is multipronged." Eve swallowed the outrage that burned into her throat. "And with respect, Commander, is not stalled but rather complex and layered. Justice isn't always served swiftly."
"She'd been kept where she belonged, there wouldn't be an investigation." Feeney's anger snapped out. "We put her away once, and now because a bunch of morons and bleeding hearts open the cage door, we've got to put her away again. That's a damn fact. It was Dallas who pinned her then, and maybe the media, this office, and the office of the damn chief should remember that."
When Eve put a hand on his arm, he shook her off. "Don't tell me to calm down," he shot out, though she hadn't said a word.
"I'm fully aware of the history in this matter." Whitney's voice stayed level. "And so is Chief Tibble. And the media, I can promise you, will be reminded of it. But it's today we have to deal with. Julianna Dunne remains at large, and that's a very big problem. She taunted you," he said to Eve. "And the opinion is she'll continue to do so. Would you agree, Lieutenant, that Dunne selected New York as her primary location as payback? That her work here is a personal attack on you?"
"I would agree, Commander, that the subject harbors a grudge, and while her work is satisfying in and of itself to her, by killing here she gains the added benefit of involving me in combat."
"She has no particular interest in or connection to the men she's killed. Which makes your investigation more problematic."
"It's unlikely we'll track and apprehend her by identifying her next target or targets." She felt a little warning beat at the base of her skull. "The investigation is better served by concentrating on the subject's pattern— personal pattern. How she lives, works, plays. She isn't a woman to deny herself the comforts and luxuries she's always believed she deserves and which were denied to her for nearly nine years in prison. I'm currently compiling and analyzing data in that area to support what I believe is a valid theory."
"I'd be interested in reviewing that data and hearing that theory, but in the meantime, let's just backtrack a minute." He steepled his hands, tapped the index fingers together. "The computer probabilities oppose the view held by Dr. Mira and the primary as to the identity of one of the potential targets. Who—after reviewing all data and reports—I believe is and has been the central target all along. This individual's willingness to cooperate could very well result in Dunne's ear
ly apprehension and a closure to this case."
The beat became a pounding. "Utilizing civilians—"
"Is often expedient," Whitney finished. "Particularly when the civilian is known to be ... skilled in pertinent areas."
"Permission to speak with you privately, sir."
"Denied."
"Commander." Roarke spoke for the first time, in a soft tone, a direct contrast to the rising tension in the room. "If I may? She'll come at me sooner or later, Eve. We arrange to make it sooner, it gives us the advantage and may save another life."
"I object to using a civilian as bait." She looked directly at Whitney. "Whoever, whatever he might be. As primary of this investigation, I have the right to refuse employing tactics I feel generate unacceptable risk to my men, or to civilians."
"And as your commander, I have the right to overrule your refusal, to order you to employ those tactics or remove you as primary."
This time it was Feeney who grabbed Eve's arm. But Roarke was already getting to his feet. "Jack." His voice wasn't quite as soft now when he addressed Whitney. Deliberately, he stepped between him and Eve, turned so she had no choice but to look him in the face.
"You'll have control. She's had the upper hand till this. You'll draw her in where and how you choose. That's the first point. The second being I won't sit back and wait until she picks the time and place to have at me. I'm asking you for help, and offering you mine."
It was easy to see why he was so good at what he did. At winning whatever he wanted. Bending wills to his own with reason—at first anyway. Then by whatever method worked best.
But she wasn't a company to be absorbed, or a suit to be intimidated. "You're not asking or offering anything. And you're not giving me control, you're taking it."
"That would depend on how you look at it."
"I see just fine. Step back, Roarke, you're not in charge here yet."
Something flashed in his eyes, something deadly. It only served to add punch to a temper that was already fuming to peak. When she moved toward Roarke, Feeney grabbed her arm a second time, and Whitney came to his feet.
"Ease down, kid," Feeney muttered.
"Lieutenant Dallas." Whitney's voice cracked like a whip. "This office is not the place for your marital disagreements."
"You made it the place. This is an ambush, and one that circumvents my authority, that puts that authority on the block in front of my team."
Whitney opened his mouth, then closed it again in a tight line. "Point taken. Your team is dismissed."
"I'd prefer they remain at this point, sir. Completing this meeting privately now is a useless gesture."
"You're a hardass, Lieutenant, and you're skirting very close to the line."
"Yes, sir, I am. But you already crossed over it. I respect both your authority and your office, Commander."
He had to take a calming breath. "And you imply I show none for yours."
"That would depend ..." She glared at Roarke. "On how you look at it."
"And if you were looking at this situation objectively rather than through what is arguably justified anger at the way this particular avenue was presented to you?"
"I strongly believe Julianna Dunne may be out of the country, or that she has plans to leave New York for a short period of time. If I'm allowed to pursue that avenue, I believe I can confirm her location, or planned destination in a few hours."
"And this belief is based on?"
"My instincts and my considerable understanding of the subject." Pitch it now, Eve ordered herself, and pitch it hard.
"She's a girl. She has a deep-seated need to indulge her femininity, in the most luxurious and exclusive manner available. She's been hard at work for some time now, planning and executing her agenda. She'll want a break. In the past, she took a short vacation between every hit. Resorts primarily, with top-flight treatment centers. It's pattern. She's moved on her victims in rapid succession this time out, and this after being incarcerated for a number of years. She'll need to renew herself, recharge, and her most likely method would be a spa facility where she can be pampered and can relax before she..."
She trailed off, then dug back in. "... before she moves on what I believe is and has been the central target. She'll want to groom, prepare, relax, before she comes at him. I've run a probability on this theory and got just over ninety percent. She doesn't change, Commander. At the core, she doesn't change."
"Assuming your theory is correct, there are countless facilities of this nature—numerous in this city alone."
"It wouldn't be here. She'd want to get away, that's indulgence, and she wouldn't risk having a consultant who might have seen her on the media, get up close and personal with her face. That's brains. It's most likely she'd go out of the country where the media attention on murders in New York City isn't as intense."
She watched his expression, saw him consider that. Agree with that. "I've already narrowed down the field, and intend to start checking with the most likely locations and working my way down the list."
"Then do so. However, that angle doesn't preclude preparing for another option. If you tag her, are successful in tracking and apprehension, then this is put to rest. If you don't, we'll have a trap in place. Settle yourself down, Lieutenant. And listen."
Whitney turned to Roarke, and nodded.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
"In three day's time," Roarke began, "there's a charity function, a dinner dance to raise funds for medical transports and equipment needed by the Canal Street Clinic. I believe Dr. Dimatto mentioned this to you, Lieutenant."
"I know about it."
"I accepted the invitation to attend some weeks ago, so that's public knowledge if anyone was wondering when I might be socializing at some public function in the city. The event is being held at one of the ballrooms at the Grand Regency Hotel. Happens that's one of mine."
"Shock," Eve said in a voice that dripped sarcasm like poisoned honey. "Amazement."
"It also happens that the ownership is held by one of my subsidiaries, and isn't so easily traced to me. Not that all appropriate business fees and taxes aren't promptly paid," he added with a cool amusement, "but a casual glance, even a more curious one wouldn't necessarily shake my name out of it—which cancels out any reluctance Julianna might have about coming for me on my own turf. So to speak. And also gives the advantage of knowing the security bottom to top, and being able to adjust that security to the particular situation."
Though he paused he got no response from Eve, nor had he expected any. "Just to ice the cake, it's just been leaked to the media by my public relations people that not only will I attend the function, but will be making a sizable donation. The donation will be hefty enough to ensure strong media attention for the next little while."
He'd taken over the room, Eve realized. Not just the discussion but the goddamn room. He was in command now, and it infuriated.
"By now, if she wasn't already aware of it, she'll know I'll be attending a public event where there'll be a great deal of people, a great deal of food and drink, and a large staff serving them. She'll know my wife will be attending with me. It's a tailor-made opportunity for her. She'll take it. Odds are, she'd already planned to do so."
"We can't be certain of that," Eve corrected. Though she'd already thought of it, had been planning on finding a way to wiggle out of the event. "If she's just learning of it, it's a narrow window of time for her to confidently blend herself into the staff or guests, and for us," Eve added, "to confidentially assess and adjust security to ensure the protection of civilians. You won't be the only rich bastard there. This proposal puts others at risk."
He brushed off her concerns, her objections, with an elegant shrug. One he knew would madden her. "The function takes place whether or not I attend. If she's targeted someone else ahead of me, they're already at risk. And if she has targeted someone else, the temptation to shift to me while you're there would be very great. It's you she wants to hurt, Lieutenant. I'm
just her weapon against you. Do you think I'll be used for that? For anything?"
"In your opinion," Whitney said into the thrumming silence, "does the suspect have any reason to believe you're aware of her intention to hit Roarke?"
"I can't know what she's—"
"Lieutenant." Whitney's tone bit. "Your opinion."
Training warred with temper, and won. "No, sir. This subject doesn't fit her pattern, and she specifically informed me of the type she'd targeted. She would have no reason to suspect or believe that I would have concern in this area, that I would look outside the box. She respects me, but is confident I'm running behind her chasing only the trail she's left me."
"Run the play, Dallas." Whitney got to his feet again. "Work the angles, plug the holes, close the box. Whatever equipment and manpower you need, you'll get. We'll discuss this further tomorrow. Tomorrow," he repeated, anticipating her protest. "When tempers aren't so close to the surface. I respect your temper, Lieutenant, as I do your rank and your abilities. Dismissed."
Not trusting herself to speak, Eve gave him a curt nod and walked out.
When Peabody trotted out after her Eve's snarl was enough to hold her off.
"Keep out of the line of fire." Roarke laid a hand on Peabody's shoulder. "It's me she wants to blast into small, bleeding pieces, but you could get caught in the stream and you've had a good day till now."
"From where I'm standing you deserve a blast. Don't you think she took enough of a pounding yesterday?"
To Roarke's considerable surprise, Peabody turned on her heel and marched in the opposite direction. With his temper notching up from slow burn to fast simmer, he strode after his wife. He caught up with her just as she stalked into her office and managed to slap a hand on the door an instant before it slammed in his face.
"Get out. Get the hell out." She grabbed discs, shoved them into a file. "This is still my area."
"We'll discuss this."