The In Death Collection, Books 21-25

by J. D. Robb

“New York? You keep late hours, Lieutenant.”

  “You answer your own ’link, Ms. Grant.”

  “Entirely too often. What can I do for New York?”

  “Trudy Lombard.”

  The smile that curved across Maxie’s face was anything but friendly. “Tell me you’re Homicide, and the bitch is on a slab.”

  “That’s just what I’m going to tell you.”

  “No shit? Well, strike up the band and hand me a tuba. How’d she buy it?”

  “I take it you weren’t a fan.”

  “I hated her guts. I hated the atoms that made up her guts. If you’ve got who did her under wraps, I’d like to shake his hand.”

  “Why don’t you tell me your whereabouts from this past Saturday through Monday.”

  “Sure. I was right here. On the coast, I mean. Even I don’t spend every minute in this office.” She eased back in the chair, pursed her lips in consideration. “Okay, Saturday, eight to noon, I was volunteering at St. Agnes’s. I coach girls’ volleyball. Get you a list of names to verify if you want them. Did some Christmas shopping after, with a pal. Spent too much, but hell, it’s Christmas. Got the pal’s name, and my receipts. Party Saturday night. Didn’t get home ’til after two, and didn’t come home alone. Sex and breakfast in bed Sunday morning. Went to the gym, hung around the house. Did some work from home Sunday night. How about some details. Did she suffer? Please tell me she suffered.”

  “Why don’t you tell me why you’d enjoy that?”

  “She made my life hell for nine months. Unless you’re a total fuckup—and you don’t look like one—you’ve got my file right there. Went into the system when I was eight, after my old man finally beat my mother to death and got his sorry ass locked up. Nobody wanted me. I got shot to that sadistic bitch. She used to make me scrub floors with a toothbrush, locked me in my room every night. Cut the power to it sometimes, just so I’d be in the dark. Told me my mother probably deserved what she got, and I’d end up the same way.”

  She took a deep breath, then reached for the bottle of water at her elbow, drank. “I started stealing, squirreling money away for my escape fund. Got caught. She showed the cops all these bruises on her arms, her legs. Told them I’d attacked her. I never touched the bitch. So I’m slapped in juvie. Got bad, lots of fights.

  “You’ve seen this picture before.”

  “Yeah, a few times.”

  “I was dealing illegals by the time I was ten. Bad ass,” she said with a smile that said she was ashamed of it. “In and out of kid cages until I was fifteen and a deal went south. I got cut up. Best thing that ever happened to me. There was a priest . . . This sounds very Vid of the Week, but there you go. He stuck with me, wouldn’t quit. He turned me around.”

  “And you went into law.”

  “Just seemed to suit me. That sadistic bitch had me when I was eight, and I was scared. I’d watched my mother die. She used that, did her level best to ruin me. And she nearly did. I won’t be sending flowers to her wake, Lieutenant. I’ll be strapping on red shoes and drinking French champagne.”

  “When’s the last time you saw her?”

  “I haven’t seen her, face-to-face, in four years.”

  “Face-to-face?”

  She took another sip, slowly. “I’m a lawyer, good enough to know I should have representation. I shouldn’t be talking to you. But I’m so damn happy she’s dead, I’m going to walk on the wild side. Four years ago, I was working for a high-powered firm. Junior partner. I was engaged to a guy who had a solid shot at the Senate. I was pulling in a big salary, one I worked my ass off for. She shows up at my office. Where I worked, for God’s sake. She’s all smiles, and look at you, aren’t you something. Made me sick.”

  Maxie took one more slug of water, then slapped the bottle down again. “I should’ve kicked her out, but she caught me off guard. Then she hits me with it: She’s got copies of my record, all of it. The illegals, the cage time, the assaults, the thefts. It wouldn’t do, would it, for that to come out? Not with me in this cushy job, in this important firm. Not with me planning my wedding to a man favored to head to East Washington.”

  “She blackmailed you.”

  “I let her. So stupid. I gave her fifty thousand. In three months, she was back for more. That’s the way it works. I’m not green, I knew better. But I paid her again. Even when my relationship went down the sewer. My fault, I was so stressed, so determined not to let him know, that I torched it.”

  She broke off a moment, and her tone changed, softened. “I’m sorry for that. Still sorry for that. So, I paid her for two years. To the tune of a quarter mil. And I just couldn’t take it anymore. I quit my job. And the next time she contacted me, I told her to go ahead. Go ahead, you bitch, do your worst. I’ve got nothing to lose now. Already lost it,” she said quietly.

  “How’d she take it?”

  “She was steamed. At least I had that. She screamed and carried on like I was jabbing hot sticks in her eyes. Nice moment for me. I’d get disbarred, she said. And that’s bull, of course. No firm would ever hire me again. And there she might’ve had something. I didn’t give a cold shit. I stuck, and she went away. And now, thank the gods, she won’t be back.”

  “You should’ve gone to the cops.”

  “Maybe. Shoulda, coulda, woulda. I played my hand. I got my own firm now, such as it is. I’m happy. I didn’t kill her, but I’ll offer my services pro bono to whoever did. She made me bathe in cold water, every night. Said it was good for me. Cooled hot blood.”

  Eve shuddered before she could stop herself. She remembered the cold baths.

  “I’m going to want the names of the people who can verify your whereabouts, Maxie.”

  “No problem. Tell me how she bought it.”

  “Fractured skull, blunt instrument.”

  “Oh. I was hoping for something more exotic. Guess that’ll have to do.”

  Cold, Eve thought later. Cold and brutally frank. She had to respect that.

  Even better, she had her first step toward a pattern of blackmail.

  She found two more. Though they didn’t confirm it, she saw it in their eyes. Alibis would be checked for them, and for the two others she couldn’t reach.

  She got up for coffee, detoured into Roarke’s office. “Any progress?”

  “Continues to dead-end on me.” He shoved back from the desk, obviously annoyed. “Are we sure she had the numbers right?”

  “She was shook, so she may have screwed up. But she said them twice, in the sequence I gave you. No hesitation.”

  “I’m getting nothing. I’m going to have the computer run them, in various sequences. See what pops up. What about you?”

  “I’ve got one confirmed blackmail. Lawyer out in California. I don’t like her for the murder, but she claims she shelled out a quarter million over a couple of years before she cut Trudy off. That’s a lot from one source, and I’m banking there’s more. I’m also banking Trudy had herself a couple of quiet accounts, the sort she wouldn’t report for taxes.”

  “Now that I can find easily enough.”

  “I’ve got two account numbers from the lawyer where she transferred money to Trudy. But it’s been several years, and maybe Trudy shuffled funds around.”

  “The best way to keep the IRS from sniffing. I’ll start with those, find the rest.”

  “When you do, if they were e-transfers, we’d be able to track them to the source.”

  “Child’s play, and it’ll give me a break from this frustration.”

  “Want coffee?”

  “How wifely. I would, yes. Thanks.”

  “I was getting some for me anyway.”

  She heard him laugh as she started out, then she stopped by the board again. If Trudy had income from blackmail, money tucked away, just how much would Bobby inherit now?

  A nice boost to his business, she imagined.

  She thought briefly of the boy who’d snuck a sandwich into her room when she’d been alone and hungry
. How he’d done so without a word, with the faintest of smiles and a finger to his lips.

  Then she got coffee, and prepared to find out if he’d killed his own mother.

  14

  SHE WAS STANDING IN A ROOM, BRILLIANTLY lit, drinking champagne with a group of women. She recognized their faces. The California lawyer was drinking right from the bottle and doing a hip-swinging dance in high red heels. Carly Tween was sitting on a stool with a tall back, sipping delicately while she rubbed her enormous belly with her free hand.

  The others—the others who’d been like her—were all chattering the way women do at girl parties. She’d never been fluent in the language of fashion and food and men, so she drank the frothy wine and let the sounds roll over her.

  Everyone was duded up. She herself was wearing the same outfit she’d donned for the holiday party. Even in the dream—even knowing it was a dream—her feet ached.

  Part of the room was sectioned off, and there the children they’d been sat, watching the party. Hand-me-down clothes, hungry faces, hopeless eyes—all closed off from the lights, the music, the laughter by a sheer glass wall.

  Inside it, Bobby served the children sandwiches, and they ate ravenously.

  She didn’t belong here, not really. She wasn’t one of them, not quite. And the others sent her quick, sidelong glances, and whispered behind their hands.

  Still, it was she who walked first to the body that lay on the floor in the middle of the celebration. Blood stained Trudy’s nightgown and congealed on the glossy floor.

  “She’s really not dressed for it,” Maxie said, and smiled as she chugged down more champagne. “All the money she carved out of us, you’d think she could afford a nice outfit. It’s a fricking party, isn’t it?”

  “She didn’t plan to be here.”

  “You know what they say about plans.” She gave Eve an elbow nudge. “Loosen up. We’re all family here, after all.”

  “My family’s not here.” She looked through that sheer glass, into the eyes of children. And wasn’t so sure. “I’ve got a job to do.”

  “Suit yourself. Me, I’m going to get this party started.” Maxie turned the bottle over, gripped the neck in both hands, and with a wild laugh smashed it against Trudy’s already shattered head.

  Eve leapt forward, shoved her back, but the others swarmed in. She was knocked down, kicked aside, trampled as they fell on the body like dogs.

  She crawled clear, struggled to stand. And saw the children behind the glass. Cheering.

  Behind them, she saw the shadow, the shape that was her father.

  Told you, didn’t I, little girl? Told you they’d toss you into the pit with the spiders.

  “No.” She jerked, struck out when someone lifted her.

  “Easy now,” Roarke murmured. “I’ve got you.”

  “What? What?” With her heart skittering, she shook herself awake in his arms. “What is it?”

  “You fell asleep at your desk. Small wonder as it’s nearly two in the morning. You were having a nightmare.”

  “It wasn’t . . .” She took a moment to steady herself. “It wasn’t a nightmare, not really. It was just weird. Just a weird dream. I can walk.”

  “I like this better.” Still carrying her, he stepped onto the elevator. “We’d have headed for bed sooner, but I got caught up.”

  “I’m fuzzy.” She rubbed her face, but couldn’t scrape away the fatigue. “You get anywhere?”

  “What a question. Three accounts so far. I suspect there are more. Feeney can take over with it in the morning. I’ve some work of my own to deal with.”

  “What are—”

  “Morning’s soon enough. It’s nearly here, in any case.” He stepped out of the elevator, took her straight to the bed. When he started to tug down her pants, she tapped his hands aside.

  “I can do that. You might get ideas.”

  “Even I have limits, broad though they may be.”

  Still, when he slid into bed with her, he drew her close to his side.

  She started to nag him into giving her some of the data. And the next thing she knew, it was morning.

  He was having coffee in the sitting area, with the viewing screen split between stock reports and the morning bulletins. At the moment, she didn’t care about either. So she grunted what passed for a morning greeting and slogged off to the bathroom.

  When she came out, she smelled bacon.

  There were two plates on the table. She knew his game. He’d fill her in if and when she ate. To expedite it, she plopped down across from him, grabbed the coffee first.

  “So?”

  “Good morning to you, too. Such as it is. Forecast is for sleet, possibly turning to snow by midmorning.”

  “The fun never ends. The accounts, Roarke.”

  He pointed a finger at the cat, who was trying to belly over toward the food. Galahad stopped, and began scratching his ears.

  “The accounts the lawyer gave you were closed. Timing coordinates with the cutoff. I found others, off shore and off planet. Numbered, of course, but with some finessing, I unearthed the certified names. Roberta True and Robin Lombardi.”

  “Not very imaginative.”

  “I don’t think imagination was her strong suit. Greed certainly was. She had close to a million in each. Tracing back, I’ve got the lawyer’s transfers. And another six figures transferred from an account under the names Thom and Carly Tween.”

  “Yeah, I knew she’d been scalped some.”

  “Also a chunk from a Marlee Peoples.”

  “Peoples—that’s the doctor, pediatrician, in Chicago. I wasn’t able to reach her yesterday.”

  “There’s more. I made you a list. Deposits that I’ve found so far go back about ten years.”

  “Round about the time she’d have lost the pro-mom status. You got a kid in college, you keep the status until he’s done, or turns twenty-four.”

  “A handy way to make up for the loss in income.”

  “But she doesn’t buy a nice outfit for the party.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Stupid dream.” Eve shook her head. “Or not so. What the hell did she do with her money, anyway? Comes to New York, stays in an economy hotel.”

  Roarke plucked up a piece of bacon, handed it to her. “For some, it’s simply the having, the accumulating. It’s not what you can buy with it.”

  Because it was in her hand, she ate the bacon. “Well, Morris said she’d had good face and body work, so she spent some on that. Daughter-in-law stated Trudy left her better jewelry at home, so she spent some there. Personal stuff,” Eve mused. “Appearance. That fits her. And maybe she invested in something. Bobby’s in real estate. Could be she’s got property. Something she figured to retire to when she was done bleeding her former charges.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I don’t know. How much she had, who knew she had it, who had access. It might matter.” She ate as she thought about it. “I couldn’t find anything that points to Bobby or his bride. I went through financials, medical, education, criminal. But if either or both of them knew she had a couple million stashed away, and thought there was a shot at doubling that, maybe.”

  She toyed with it a moment. “If we can freeze the accounts, prove the funds were from illegal means . . . Might get the killer to try to follow Trudy’s path to blackmail. Might piss him off, too. And eventually, through the maze of red tape, we might even get the money back where it came from.”

  “And justice for all.”

  “In a perfect world, which isn’t even close to this one. But it’s an angle. If money was the motive, removing the money could stir things up.”

  With some surprise she realized she’d finished her breakfast. She rose. “I’m going to get dressed, get started. Maybe we’ll lower the visual on the security I’ve got on Bobby and Zana. Make it seem like it’s eased up. Need some bait, is what we need.”

  She went to the closet, remembered what he’d said about sleet and
snow, so detoured to her dresser to dig out a sweater. “It’s the twenty-third, right?”

  “Only two more shopping days before Christmas.”

  “Makes sense, lighter duty this close to the big day. Couple of out-of-towners cooped up in a hotel. They’d start whining about getting out some. So we let them. See what we can see.”

  At Central, she set up a briefing in one of the conference rooms. She called in Detective Baxter and Officer Trueheart, as well as Feeney, Peabody, and McNab.

  She caught them up, then began to assign duties.

  “Feeney, you’ll continue to follow the money. I realize this isn’t your top priority, so whatever time and manpower you can spare.”

  “Things are pretty loose. Losing a lot of my boys over the next day or two. Including this one.” He jerked a thumb at McNab. “No reason I can’t work their asses off until then.”

  “Appreciate it. I’m going to need a couple of homers,” she told him. “I want small and discreet. I’m going for a warrant to use them on our two protective custodys.”

  “A warrant?” He scratched his fingers into his wiry, ginger-colored hair. “You don’t figure they’ll grant permission?”

  “I’m not going to ask for it. So I want something I can get on them without them being aware. You got something in your bag of tricks that’ll give me some audio, it wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Tricky.” Considering, he rubbed his chin. “Warrant for something like that, you generally got to have some evidence points to them as suspects, or have their prior knowledge and cooperation.”

  She’d already worked the skirt around that one in her head. “In the opinion of the primary, the subjects are already under duress and stress. The purpose of the homers is for their own safety, as the female subject was purportedly abducted once.”

  “Purportedly?” Peabody repeated.

  “We’ve only got her word on it. We’re running a thin line with these two, between victims and suspects. Homers are my method of walking the line. I’m going to do a dance for the warrant. I’ll call Mira in to back me up if necessary. We get them wired, and we open the cage.”

  She turned to Baxter. “That’s where you and your partner come in. I want you out there, soft clothes, tailing them. I want to know where they go, how they look.”