by J. D. Robb
“I know this is hard. How about her assets? She had the house, right?”
“It’s a good place. Can’t have a son in the business and not have a good property. She was pretty well set. Worked hard all her life, was careful with her money. Frugal.”
“You inherit.”
He looked blank. “I guess. We never talked about it.”
“How’d she get along with Zana?”
“Good. Things were a little rough at first. Mama—I was all she had, and she wasn’t real happy about Zana right off. You know how mothers are.” He caught himself, colored. “Sorry, that was stupid.”
“No problem. She had a problem with you marrying Zana?”
“Just me getting married, I’d say. But Zana won her over. They get—got along fine.”
“Bobby, were you aware that your mother went to see my husband on Friday afternoon?”
“Your husband? What for?”
“She wanted money. A lot of money.”
He simply stared, shook his head slowly side to side. “That can’t be right.”
He didn’t look shocked, she noted. He simply looked baffled. “Do you know who I’m married to?”
“Yeah, sure. There were all those media reports after the cloning scandal. I couldn’t believe it was you, right up on the screen. I didn’t even remember you at first. It’s been a long time. But Mama did. She—”
“Bobby, your mother came to New York for a reason. She wanted to contact me again because I happen to be married to a man who has a lot of money. She wanted some of it.”
His face remained blank, his voice slow and careful. “That’s just not true. That’s just not.”
“It is true, and it’s very likely she had an associate, and that associate killed her when there was no money given. Bet you could use a couple million dollars, Bobby.”
“A couple million . . . You think I did that to Mama?” He got shakily to his feet. “That I’d hurt my own mother? A couple million dollars.” His hands went to the sides of his head, squeezed. “This is crazy talk. I don’t know why you’d say things like that. Somebody broke in, came in through the window, and killed my mother. He left her lying on the floor in there. You think I could do that to my own blood? To my own mother?”
She stayed where she was, kept her tone just as brisk, just as firm. “I don’t think anyone broke in, Bobby. I think they came in. I think she knew them. She had other injuries, injuries she sustained hours before her death.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The facial wounds, bruising elsewhere on her person, all were inflicted sometime Friday night. Injuries you claim you knew nothing about.”
“I didn’t. It can’t be.” The words hitched and jumped out of his mouth. “She’d have told me if she was hurt. She’d have told me if somebody hurt her. For God’s sake, this is just crazy.”
“Someone did hurt her. Several hours after she left my husband’s office, where she attempted to shake him down for two million. She left empty-handed. That tells me she was working with someone, and that someone was seriously pissed off. She walked into Roarke’s office and wanted two million to go back to Texas and leave me alone. It’s on record, Bobby.”
There was no color left in his face. “Maybe . . . maybe she asked for a loan. Maybe she wanted to help me out, with the business. Zana and I are talking about maybe starting a family. Maybe Mama . . . I don’t understand any of this. You’re making it sound like Mama was—was—”
“I’m giving you the facts, Bobby.” Cruelly, she thought, but the cruelty could take him off the suspect list. “I’m asking who she trusted enough, cared for enough to work with on this. The only ones you’re coming up with are you and your wife.”
“Me and Zana? You think one of us could’ve killed her? Could’ve left her bleeding on the floor of some hotel room? Over money? Over money that wasn’t even there? Over anything?” he said and sank back onto the side of the bed.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“Because someone left her bleeding on the floor of some hotel room, Bobby. And I think it was over money.”
“Maybe your husband did it.” His head shot up, and his eyes were fierce now. “Maybe he killed my mother.”
“Do you think I’d be telling you any of this if there was a chance of that? If I wasn’t absolutely sure, if the facts weren’t rock solid on his side, what do you think I’d do? Open window, escape platform. Unknown intruder, botched break-in. Sorry for your loss, and that’s that. Look at me.”
She waited until he took a good long look at her face. “I could do that, Bobby. I’m a cop. I’ve got rank, I’ve got respect. I could close the door on this so nobody’d look back. But what I’m going to do is find out who killed your mother and left her lying on that floor. You can count on it.”
“Why? Why do you care? You ran away from her. You took off when she was doing her best by you. You—”
“You know better, Bobby.” She kept her voice low, kept it even. “You know better. You were there.”
He lowered his gaze. “She had a hard time, that’s all. It was hard raising a kid on her own, trying to make ends meet.”
“Maybe. I’ll tell you why I’m doing this, Bobby. I’m doing it for me, and maybe I’m doing it for you. For the kid who snuck me food. But I’ll tell you, if I find out you’re the one who killed her, I’ll lock you in a cage.”
He straightened; he cleared his throat. His face, his voice, were very set now. “I didn’t kill my mother. I never once in my life raised a hand to her. Never once in my life. If she came for money, it was wrong. It was wrong, but she was doing it for me. I wish she’d told me. Or—or somebody made her do it. Somebody threatened her, or me, or—”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.” His voice cracked and shattered. “I don’t know.”
“Who knew you were coming to New York?”
“D.K., Marita, the people who work for us, some of the clients. God, the neighbors. We didn’t keep it a secret, for God’s sake.”
“Make a list of everyone you can think of. We’ll work from there.” She rose when the door opened.
Peabody came in all but carrying a pale and shaking Zana.
“Zana. Honey.” Bobby sprang off the bed, leaped to his wife’s side, caught her in his arms. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. A man. I don’t know.” Sobbing now, she threw her arms around Bobby’s neck. “Oh, Bobby.”
“Found her a block east,” Peabody told Eve. “Looked lost, shaken up. She said a man grabbed her, forced her into a building.”
“My God, Zana, honey. Did he hurt you?”
“He had a knife. He said he’d cut me if I screamed or tried to run. I was so scared. I said he could have my purse. I told him to take it.
“I don’t know. I don’t think . . . Oh, Bobby, he said he killed your mama.”
Eve waded through the next flood of tears, muscled Zana away from Bobby. “Sit down. Stop crying. You’re not hurt.”
“I think he—” With a trembling hand, she reached down the small of her back.
“Take off the coat.” Eve noted the small hole in the red cloth, and the tear in the sweater Zana wore under it. There were a few spots of blood. “Superficial,” Eve said, then pulled up the sweater, examined the shallow cut.
“He stabbed you?” Horrified, Bobby slapped at Eve’s hands to get a look for himself.
“It’s a scratch,” Eve said.
“I don’t feel very well.”
When Zana’s eyes started to roll back, Eve grabbed her and shook. “You’re not going to faint. You’re going to sit down, and you’re going to tell me what happened.” She pushed Zana into a chair, then shoved the woman’s head between her knees. The thin silver dangles at her ears swung like bell clappers.
“Breathe. Peabody.”
“On it.” Already prepared, Peabody came out of the bathroom with a damp washcloth. “It really is a scratch,” she said gently to
Bobby. “A little antiseptic wouldn’t hurt.”
“In my travel kit. It’s already packed.” Zana’s voice was weak and wavery. “In my little travel kit in the suitcase. God, can we go home? Can’t we just go home?”
“You’re going to make a statement. On record,” Eve said and showed Zana the recorder. “You got up, went out to get coffee.”
“I feel a little sick to my stomach.”
“No, you don’t,” Eve said brutally. “You left the hotel.”
“I . . . I wanted to be able to offer you something when you got here. And Bobby’s hardly eaten a thing since . . . I thought I’d just run out, pick up a few things before he woke up. We didn’t sleep much last night.”
“Okay, you went downstairs.”
“I went down, and I said good morning to the desk clerk. I know he’s a droid, but still. And I went outside. It looked like a nice day, cool though. So I started buttoning up my coat as I walked. Then . . . he was just there. He had his arm around me so fast, and I could feel the point of the knife. He said if I screamed he’d ram it right into me. Just to walk, keep walking, look down, down at my feet and keep walking. I was so scared. Can I have some water?”
“I’ll get it.” Peabody moved into the kitchenette.
“He walked really fast, and I was afraid I’d trip. Then he’d kill me right there.” Her eyes went glassy again.
“Focus. Concentrate,” Eve snapped. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.” Zana shivered, hugged herself. “I said, ‘You can have my purse.’ But he didn’t say anything. I was afraid to look up. I thought maybe I should run, but he was strong, and I was too afraid. Then he pushed open this door. It was a bar, I think. It was dark and there was nobody there, but it smelled like a bar, you know. Thank you.”
She took the water in both hands, and still it slopped over the rim as she brought it to her lips. “I can’t stop shaking. I thought he was going to rape me and kill me, and I couldn’t do anything. But he told me to sit down, so I did, and keep my hands on the table, so I did. He said he wanted the money, and I told him to take my purse. Just take it. He said he wanted the full two million, or he’d do to me what he did to Trudy. But he’d cut me up so nobody’d even recognize me when he was finished.”
Tears streamed down her face, sparkled on her lashes. “I said, ‘You killed Mama Tru, you killed her?’ He said he’d do worse to me, and to Bobby, if we didn’t get him the money. Two million dollars. We don’t have two million dollars, Bobby. I told him, my God, where are we going to get that kind of money? He said, ‘Ask the cop.’ And he gave me what he said was a numbered account. He made me say it back, over and over, and said if I screwed it up, if I forgot the number, he’d come find me, and he’d carve it into my ass. That’s what he said. 505748711094463. 505748711094463. 505—”
“Okay, we got it. Keep going.”
“He said for me to just sit there. ‘You sit there, little bitch,’ that’s what he said.” She swiped at her wet cheeks. “ ‘You sit there for fifteen minutes. You come out before then, I’ll kill you.’ And he left me there. I just sat there in the dark. Afraid to get up, afraid he’d come back. I just sat until the time was up. I didn’t know where I was when I came out. I was all turned around. It was so noisy. I started to run, but my legs wouldn’t run, and I couldn’t find my way back. Then the detective came, and she helped me.
“I left my purse. I must’ve left my purse. Or maybe he took it. I didn’t get the coffee.”
She dissolved into tears again. Eve gave her a full minute of them, then pushed. “What did he look like, Zana?”
“I don’t know. Not really. I hardly got a look. He was wearing a hat, like a ski hat, and sunshades. He was tall. I think. He had on black jeans and black boots. I kept looking down, like he said, and I saw his boots. They had laces, and they were scuffed at the toes. I kept looking at his boots. He had big feet.”
“How big?”
“Bigger than Bobby’s. A little bit bigger, I think.”
“What color was his skin?”
“I hardly saw. White, I think. He wore black gloves. But I think he was white. I only got a glimpse, and when he took me inside, it was dark. He stayed behind me the whole time, and it was dark.”
“Facial hair, any scars, marks, tattoos?”
“I didn’t see any.”
“His voice? Any accent?”
“He talked down in his throat, low down. I don’t know.” She looked piteously at Bobby. “I was so scared.”
Eve pressed a little more, but the details were getting hazier.
“I’m going to have you escorted to your new location, and I’m going to put a uniformed guard on you. If you remember anything else, however slight, I want you to contact me.”
“I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this. Why would he kill Mama Tru? Why would he think we could give him so much money?”
Eve looked over at Bobby. Then she signalled for Peabody to arrange for the escort. “Bobby will tell you what we know.”
10
TO EXPEDITE THE TRANSFER, EVE PERSONALLY escorted Bobby and Zana to their new location. She assigned two uniforms to canvass for the location Zana said she’d been taken, fanning out in a four-block radius from the original hotel. Rather than search the vacated room herself, she left it to Peabody and the sweepers before heading to the morgue.
At her request, Morris had Trudy waiting.
Nothing, Eve thought as she looked down at the body. There was still nothing inside her. No pity, no anger.
“What can you tell me?” Eve asked.
“Facial and bodily injuries sustained twenty-four to thirty-six hours before the head wounds. We’ll get to them shortly.” Morris handed her a pair of microgoggles, gestured. “Have a look here.”
She stepped to the slab with him, bent to study the fatal injuries.
“Some ridges. And these circular or half-circular patterns.”
“Good eye. Now let me bump it up for you.” He brought the section of the skull onto his screen, magnified.
Eve shoved the goggles to the top of her head. “You said you found fibers in the head wound.”
“Waiting for the labs on that.”
“These patterns. Could be credits. Cloth sap filled with credits. Old-fashioned and dependable. You’ve got ridges, possibly from the edges, then those more circular shapes. Yeah, could be credits. Lots of them from the weight it would take to crush the skull.”
She put the goggles back on, re-examined the wounds. “Three blows maybe. The first at the base—they’d be standing, vic with her back to the killer. Goes down, second blow comes from above—you’ve got more punch there, more velocity. And the third . . .”
She stepped back, shoving the goggles back up. “One,” she said, miming a two-handed swing from her right and down. “Two.” Overhead, this time and down. “And three.” Swinging, still two-handed, from the left.
She nodded. “Fits the spatter pattern. If the sap was cloth—a bag, a sock, a small pouch—you could get those imprints. No defensive wounds, so she didn’t put up a fight. Taken by surprise. From behind, so she’s not afraid. If the killer had another weapon—a knife, a stunner to force her to turn around—why not use it? And it’d be a quiet murder. First blow takes the vic down, she wouldn’t have time to scream.”
“Simple, and straightforward.” Morris set his own goggles down. “Let’s go back, review our previous program.”
With his sealed fingers, he tapped some icons on his diagnostic comp. He wore his long, dark hair in a braid today, and the braid curled up in a loop at the nape of his neck. His suit was a deep, conservative navy, until you added the pencil-thin stripes of showy red.
“Here’s our facial wound. Let’s enhance it a bit.”
“Similar ridged pattern. Same weapon.”
“And the same on the abdomen, torso, thighs, left hip. But something interests me here. Look closely at the facial wound again.”
“I’d s
ay the attacker was close in.” She paused, puzzled. “From the bruising, the angle, it looks like an uppercut.” She turned to Morris, swung up toward his face, and had him blink and jerk his head back a fraction as her fist stopped a hairsbreadth from his skin.
“Let’s use the program, shall we?”
She couldn’t quite stop the grin. “I wouldn’t have tapped you.”
“Regardless.” He moved back to the screen, cautiously keeping it between them. He pulled up his program, showing two figures. “Now, you see the angles and movements of the attacker, programmed to re-create the injuries we see. The facial injury indicates a left-handed blow, uppercut, as you said. It’s awkward.”
Eve frowned as she watched the screen. “Nobody hits like that. If it’s a leftie coming at her that way, he’d’ve swung out, caught her here.” She flicked fingers on her own cheekbone. “If he swung up, he should’ve caught her lower. Maybe right-handed, and he . . . no.”
She turned from the screen and back to the body. “With a fist, maybe, maybe you get bruising like that. But with a sap, you’ve got to swing it, even close in, you’ve got to lead with it.”
Her brows drew together, and her eyes narrowed. Then she lifted them to Morris. “Well, for Christ’s sake. She did it to herself?”
“I ran that, and got a probability in the mid-nineties. Have a look.” He brought up the next program. “One figure, a two-handed swing, right taking the weight, cross-body to the face.”
“Sick bitch,” Eve said under her breath.
“And a motivated one. The angles of the other injuries—save the head—could all be self-inflicted. Probability hits 99.8, when we factor in the facial injuries as self.”
She had to wipe away previous theories, get her head around the self-inflicted. “No defensive wounds, no sign she struggled or was restrained.”
While her mind whirled, Eve put the goggles on yet again, moved back to examine every inch of the body. “The bruising on the knees, the elbows?”
“Consistent with a fall, timing coordinates with the head wounds.”
“Okay, okay. Somebody clocks you in the face like this, comes at you to beat on you some more, you run, or you fall, you put your hands up to try to ward them off. Should be bruising on her forearms at least. But there isn’t, because she’s beating on herself. Nothing under her nails?”