by J. D. Robb
“Can I bounce some things off you after I line them up?”
“I’d be disappointed otherwise. Why don’t we rendezvous in an hour, do that bouncing over dinner?”
“That’ll work.” She took his hand, squeezed. “This works.”
He kissed her knuckles. “It certainly does.”
13
SHE TOOK HER HOUR AND WENT BACK TO THE beginning. She walked back through it, step by step, using the crime scene record, her own notes, the reports from the sweepers, the ME, the lab.
She listened to statements, judging inflection, expression, as much as the words themselves.
She stood in front of her board and studied each photograph, every angle.
When Roarke came in from his office, she turned to him. He acknowledged the light in her eyes with a grin and cocked brow. “Lieutenant.”
“Goddamn right. I was acting like a cop, doing the cop walk, but I wasn’t feeling like a cop. I’m back now.”
“Welcome.”
“Let’s eat. What do you want?”
“Since you’re feeling like a cop, I suppose it best be pizza.”
“Hot damn. If I hadn’t already rolled you, I’d probably jump you just for that.”
“Put it on my account.”
They sat at her desk, one on either side, with pizza and wine between them. He’d even put a tree in here, she thought. A small one, by his standards, but, by God, she liked looking at it over by the window, sprinkling light out into the dark.
“See, here’s the thing,” she began, “it doesn’t make any sense.”
“Ah.” He gestured with his glass, sipped. “Glad that’s cleared up.”
“Seriously. Here’s what you’ve got on the surface, when you walk cold into the scene: Dead woman, killed by multiple blows of a blunt instrument, head shots from behind. Previous bodily injuries indicating she’d been attacked and/or beaten the day before. Door locked from the inside, window not.”
With a slice of pizza in one hand, she waved toward her board with the other. “Appearance, basic evidence points to intruder entering through the window, bashing her, exiting the same way. As there are no defensive wounds whatsoever, investigator would assume she probably knew her killer, or didn’t believe she was in jeopardy. Now, somebody pounds on you one day, you’re going to be a little concerned next time he pops around.”
“Not if those initial injuries were self-inflicted.”
“Yeah, but you don’t know that—why would you think that—when you find the body? The killer had to be aware of at least the facial injury. It’s right there. And the same weapon was used. So we go back over it, with that data, and we have the murder being set to look like she was killed by whoever tuned her up.”
She took a huge bite of pizza, savored the spice. “We got the killer using the previous injuries as smoke. That’s not bad. Not bad at all. It’s good thinking, just like taking her ’link was good thinking.”
“Exploiting the victim’s greed and violent impulses.”
“Yeah. But there’s little things that blow that. Again, no defensive wounds. No indication she was bound when she was beaten, and no sign that she attempted, in any way, to fight back or shield herself. Doesn’t wash. Then you add the angles of the bruising. Comes up self-inflicted.”
“Which moves you to a different arena.”
“Exactly. Then there’s the crime scene itself, the position of the body, and TOD.”
“Time of death.”
“Yeah, somebody strange comes in the window middle of the night and you can get out of bed, you run and you scream. She didn’t do either. So the killer came through the door. She let the killer in.”
“The window’s still viable. If indeed she and her partner were having differences, he may have chosen to come in that way rather than risk her not letting him in.”
“The window was locked. That’s the thing about memory. It’s tricky.” She took another bite of pizza, washed it down. “It’s the thing about having a cop on an investigation who knew the victim—who, once that memory gets poked, clearly recalls how the victim always locked every door, every window. The world was full of thieves and rapists and bad business, according to the Bible of Trudy. Even during the day, when we were in the house, it was locked like a vault. I’d forgotten that. She’s not going to leave a window unlocked in big, bad New York. It’s out of character.”
“She lets the killer in,” he prompted. “Late-night visit.”
“Yeah. Late. And she doesn’t bother to put on a robe. She had one in the closet, but she doesn’t bother with it and entertains her killer while wearing her nightgown.”
“Indicating a certain level of intimacy. A lover?”
“Maybe. Can’t dismiss it. She kept herself in tune. Face and body work. I can’t remember any guys,” Eve murmured, trying to look back into the past again. “It was only about six months I was there, but I don’t remember any guys coming around, or her going out with any.”
“From then to now would indicate a very long dry spell.”
“Can’t rule out a booty call,” Eve continued, “but I went over the list of her possessions, everything she had in that room: no sex toys, no sexy underwear, no condoms or any shields against STDs. Still, could be a long-term relationship—I’m not finding indications, but could be. Not a partner, though. Not on equal terms.”
“No?”
“She had to be in charge. She had to give the orders. She liked telling people what to do and liked watching them do it. Look at her pathology—take her employment record. Scores of jobs over the years, none lasting long. She didn’t take orders, she gave them.”
“So, in her mind, fostering was perfect.” Roarke nodded. “She’s the boss, she’s in charge. Total authority.”
“She’d think,” Eve agreed. “She was cruising toward sixty, and no marriages on record. Only one official cohab. No, she wasn’t a team player. Partnership wouldn’t work for her. So maybe she tagged this individual on her ’link. Get over here, we need to talk. She’s had some wine, some meds. Probably just enough to be floaty and full of herself.”
“Another reason she might not have taken as much care as she might have otherwise.”
Eve nodded. “She’s relaxed, medicated. And she’s figuring on squeezing you for the two million. She’s cracked her own face for it. Yeah, she’s full of herself. But how’s she going to squeeze you when she’s holed up in a hotel room?”
“I’ve considered that already. You were off your rhythm,” he reminded her when she frowned at him. “Documented the injuries, I imagine, with a shaky, perhaps teary, account of the attack. An attack which would implicate either or both of us as the assailant, or—if she were more clever—which had the unknown assailant warn her that either or both of us would see she got worse unless she did what she was told.”
He topped off the wine in Eve’s glass. “There would be a statement that this record was made to protect herself, in the event of her untimely death. Or further injury. In which case the record would be sent to the media, and the authorities. This documentation would be sent to me, as she’d trust me to decipher the subtext: Pay, or this goes public.”
“Yeah, well.” She took another slice of pizza. “Did all this considering tell you where that record might be?”
“With her killer, no doubt.”
“Yeah, no doubt. So why wasn’t it brought up along with the numbered account during Zana’s abduction? Why haven’t you received a copy of the documentation?”
“The killer may have assumed the record would do the talking. And may have been foolish enough to trust it to regular mail.”
“See.” She shook the slice at him, then bit in. “Smart, sloppy, smart, sloppy. And that doesn’t work for me. There’s no sloppy here. It’s all smart—smart enough to try to look sloppy. Crime of passion, covering it up, little mistakes. Bigger ones. But I think . . . I’m starting to wonder if some of those mistakes are purposeful.”
She looked back at the
board. “Maybe I’m just circling.”
“No, keep going. I like it.”
“She was a difficult woman. Even her son said so. And yeah,” she added, reading Roarke’s expression, “I haven’t eliminated him as a suspect. I’ll come back to why he’s not higher on my list. So you’re doing grunt work for a difficult woman. You’re going to get a cut, but no way you’re getting half. Maybe she tells you she’s going for a million, and you can have ten percent for your trouble. That’s not bad for grunt work. Maybe that’s the play, and she gives you the record to deliver or send.”
“Sure of herself to do that,” he commented.
“Yeah, and sure of her grunt. But it also takes her a step back if anything goes wrong. It all fits her profile.”
“But her grunt isn’t as obedient as she assumed,” Roarke continued. “Instead of being a good doggy and delivering, you take a look at it first. And start thinking this is worth more.”
Here was her rhythm, Eve realized. Batting it back and forth with him, seeing the steps, the pieces, the possibilities.
“Yeah. Maybe you come back, tell her you want a bigger cut. Maybe you point out they could squeeze for more than a measly million.”
“That would piss her off.”
“Wouldn’t it.” Eve smiled at him. “And she’s loose. Been drinking, taking meds. Could be her tongue got away from her and it comes out she was going for two. Oops.”
“Or she just flat out refuses to widen the slice of the pie.”
“That’s a pisser either way. And any way it plays, you’re back in that room with her late Saturday night, early Sunday morning. She turns her back on you. You’ve got the record, you’ve got the weapon. You’ve got motive, you’ve got opportunity. You take her out. You bag up her ’link, her copy of the documentation, her disc files, anything else that might implicate you or help you out. You unlock the window, and you’re gone.”
“Now you’ll get the whole pie.” Roarke glanced down at the pizza between them. They’d fairly well demolished it, he noted. Hungry work.
“Then it angles back.” Eve licked a little sauce from her thumb. “Bright and early Monday morning, you’re right there, right on the spot to snatch Zana when she comes out. Happy coincidence for you that she’s out hunting bagels on her own.”
“Maybe Trudy wasn’t the one with the lover.”
“That’s a thought, isn’t it?” She inclined her head, and shoved the pizza away before she made herself sick. “Going to take a closer look at Bobby’s pretty little wife.”
“Not Bobby?”
“I’ll go down a few layers. But the thing with matricide is it’s usually uglier. More rage.”
As was patricide, she thought. She’d all but swam in the blood when she’d killed her father.
As that was one memory she didn’t need or want, she focused on the now. “Then the motive’s murky there. If it’s the money, why not wait until she scooped it up? Then you arrange for an accident back home, and you inherit. Could’ve been impulse, just of the moment, but . . .”
“You’ve got a spot for him,” Roarke said. “A soft one.”
“It’s not that.” Or maybe part of that, she admitted. “If he was putting on a show outside that hotel room, he’s wasting his talents with real estate. And I was with him when Zana had her adventure, so that means he’d have to have a partner. Or he and Zana are in this together. None of that’s impossible, so we’ll go down those layers. But it’s not what rings for me.”
He studied her face. “And something does. I can see it.”
“Back to the vic. She likes to be in charge, keep people under her thumb. Like you pointed out, she didn’t just take kids in for the fees. She took them in so she had sway over them, so they’d do her bidding, fear her. According to her, she kept files on them. So why would I be the first she’s hit on?”
“Not a partner then. A minion.”
“That’s a good word, isn’t it?” Eve sat back in her chair, swiveled back and forth. “Minion. Right up her alley. From the look back I already took, she always fostered females. Which plays into her being in her nightgown. Why bother with a robe when it’s another woman? No need to be concerned or afraid when it’s someone you bossed around when she was a kid and who, for whatever reason, is still under your control.”
“Zana was abducted by a man, if we take her at her word.”
“And if we do, going by this theory, there are two. Or Trudy had herself a man. I’m going to take a closer look at who she fostered.”
“And I’ll play with my numbers.”
“Getting anywhere?”
“It’s a matter of time. Feeney got a start and a warrant. Which makes it possible for me to use my office equipment without dodging around CompuGuard.”
“Only half the fun for you.”
“Sometimes you settle.” He got to his feet. “I’ll get back to it.”
“Roarke. Before, what I said about bringing work home, and cops into the house. I should’ve added pulling you into this mix.”
“I put myself into the mix quite a few times, going around you to do so.” His lips curved, just a bit. “I’ve tried to learn to wait to be asked first.”
“I ask a lot. And I haven’t forgotten you were hurt, took a couple of pretty serious hits on my last two major cases because I asked you first.”
“As did you,” he reminded her.
“I signed up for it.”
He smiled fully now—it was enough to make a woman’s heart do a header—and walked around the desk to lift her hand, rub his finger over her wedding ring. “As did I. Go to work, Lieutenant.”
“Okay. Okay,” she repeated quietly as he walked to his own office. She turned to her computer. “Let’s start earning our pay.”
She brought up the list of the children Trudy had fostered, then began to pick at their lives.
One was doing her third stretch for aggravated assault. Good candidate, Eve thought, if she wasn’t currently in a cage in Mobile, Alabama. She put a call through to the warden, just in case, and confirmed.
One down.
Another had been blown to bits while dancing at an underground club in Miami when a couple of lunatics stormed it. Suicide bombers, Eve recalled, protesting—with their lives, and more than a hundred others—what they considered the exploitation of women.
The next had a residence listed as Des Moines, Iowa, one current marriage on record, with employment as an elementary educator. One offspring, male. The spouse was a data cruncher. Still, they pulled in a decent living between them, Eve mused. Trudy might have dipped into the well.
Eve contacted Iowa. The woman who came on-screen looked exhausted. Banging and crashing sounded in the background. “Happy holidays. God help me. Wayne, please, will you keep it down for five minutes? Sorry.”
“No problem. Carly Tween?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Lieutenant Dallas, with New York City Police and Security.”
“New York. I’ve got to sit down.” There was a huge sigh, and the screen tipped just enough for Eve to get a glimpse of an enormously pregnant belly. Another down, she decided, but followed through.
“What’s this about?”
“Trudy Lombard. Ring a bell?”
Her face changed, tightened. “Yes. She was my foster mother for several months when I was a child.”
“Could you tell me the last time you had contact with her?”
“Why? Wayne. I mean it. Why?” she repeated.
“Ms. Lombard was murdered. I’m investigating.”
“Murdered? Wait, just wait, I have to move to somewhere else. I can’t hear with all this noise.” There was a lot of huffing before the woman gained her feet, and the screen swayed as she waddled across what Eve saw was a family living area into a small office space. She shut the door.
“She was murdered? How?”
“Mrs. Tween, I’d like to know the last time you spoke with or had contact with Ms. Lombard.”
“Am I a suspect?”
“The fact that you’re not answering a routine question makes me wonder.”
“I was twelve,” Carly snapped. “I was under her care for eight months. My aunt was able to get custody and I went to live with her. Matter closed.”
“Then why are you angry?”
“Because a New York cop is calling my home and asking me questions about a murder. I have a family. I’m eight months pregnant, for God’s sake. I’m a teacher.”
“And you still haven’t answered my question.”
“I have nothing to say about this or her. Nothing. Not without a lawyer, so leave me alone.”
The screen went black. “That went well,” Eve commented.
While she didn’t see Carly Tween waddling her way to New York to bash Trudy’s brains in, she kept her on the list.
On the next call she was switched to voice mail—two faces, two voices, both of them glowing to the point Eve wished for sunshades.
Hi! This is Pru!
And this is Alex!
We can’t talk to you right now because we’re on our honeymoon in Aruba!
They turned to each other, giggling insanely. Catch you when we come back. If we come back.
Apparently someone was taking advantage of those low rates to the islands, Eve thought. If Pru and Alex had tied the knot, they’d done so recently enough that the data hadn’t caught up.
She confirmed with vital records in Novi, Michigan. Pru and Alex had indeed applied for a marriage license, and had put it to use the previous Saturday.
She doubted they’d detoured to New York to commit murder on their way to sun, surf, and sex.
“All right, Maxie Grant, of New L.A., let’s see what you’re up to. A lawyer, huh? And with your own firm. Must be doing pretty well. I’d bet Trudy would’ve liked a piece of that.”
Factoring the time difference, she tried Maxie Grant’s office number first.
It was answered on the second beep, in brisk tones, by a woman with a great deal of curly red hair around a sharply defined face. Her mossy green eyes fixed on Eve’s. “Maxie Grant, what can I do for you?”
“Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD.”