The In Death Collection, Books 21-25

by J. D. Robb

  “His silence makes him an accessory?”

  “Something like that. And damn it, it would be easier to erase them at home, wouldn’t it? Yeah, you got a strange city, more people, so that’s a plus. But you’d be able to scope their routines more back in Texas. Which takes me back, at least part of the way, to impulse.”

  “Have you considered Bobby’s pretty new wife?”

  “Yeah, and still am. Maybe she wasn’t as tolerant of her mother-in-law as she claims. From my side, it would take a hell of a lot of tolerance. So she sees an opportunity, takes it. Get rid of Mama Tru, and put the money in Bobby’s pocket. Then, hey, why not ditch the middle man? He’s out, I’m in. Could she be stupid enough to think I wouldn’t look at her for it?”

  “When you look, what do you see?”

  “Nothing that pops up and screams ‘I’m a murderer,’ not on evidence, not on her record. But she’s a little too sweet and sissy for me.”

  He smiled a little. “Can girls be sissies?”

  “In my world. All that pink and pastel and ‘Mama Tru.’ ” Eve stuffed more bread in her mouth. “Cries if you look at her.”

  “Well now, you’ve a dead mother-in-law, an abduction, and a husband in the hospital. Seems a few tears are justified.”

  Eve just drummed her fingers. “There’s nothing in her record that leans toward this. I don’t see anyone marrying Bobby for money—just not enough of it, even if she’d known about Trudy’s dirty little nest egg.”

  “A million or so makes a comfortable life in some circles,” he reminded her.

  “Now you sound like Peabody. I’m not jaded about money,” she muttered. “But marrying somebody to get your hands on it, when you’re going to have to off him, and his mother. It’s a big stretch. And I don’t see how she could have known, beforehand, that Trudy had dough stashed here and there.”

  “A connection to one of the women who’d been blackmailed?” he suggested.

  She had to give him credit. He thought like a cop, something he’d wince over if she mentioned it. “Yeah, that was a thought. I did some digging, trying to see if I could find something there. Nothing, so far anyway. I read the witness reports, and two say she grabbed for him, tried to grab his arm as he went into the street. Just like she said.”

  “But you still wonder.”

  “Yeah, you gotta wonder. She’s the one, on the spot, for both incidents. She’s the one connected to both victims. And at this point, she’s the one who stands to gain the most if money is the motive.”

  “So you have guards on her, as much to keep track of her as for her protection.”

  “Can’t do much more until the twenty-sixth. Lab won’t push, half my men are out or their minds are. There’s no immediate danger to the populace, so I can’t get the lab to push. Even the sweepers didn’t get back to me on the results from the room next to my scene. Christmas is bogging me down.”

  “Bah, humbug.”

  “I get that,” she said and pointed a finger at him. “I turned down a candy cane today.”

  She told him about drunken Santa while their entrees were served.

  “You meet the most interesting group of people in your line of work.”

  “Yeah, it’s what you’d call eclectic.” Put it away, she told herself. Put the day away and remember you have a life. “So, you got things squared away in your world.”

  “More or less.” He poured them both more wine. “A bit of business tomorrow, but I’m closing the office at noon. There are a few little details I want to see to at home.”

  “Details.” She eyed him as she wound pasta around her fork. “What else could there be? You importing reindeer?”

  “Ah, if only I’d thought of it sooner. No, just a bit of this and that.” He brushed a hand over hers. “Our Christmas Eve was interrupted last year, if you recall.”

  “I recall.” She’d never forget the manic drive to get to Peabody, and the terror of wondering if they’d be too late. “She’ll be in Scotland this time. Have to take care of herself.”

  “She contacted me today, she and McNab, to thank me. She was surprised, and touched—both of them were—when I told them it had been your idea.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “It was your idea.”

  “It’s your shuttle.” She squirmed a little.

  “It’s interesting that you have as difficult a time giving gifts as you do receiving them.”

  “That’s because you always go overboard.” Frowning at him, she stabbed a meatball. “You went overboard, didn’t you?”

  “Are you fishing for a hint?”

  “No. Maybe. No,” she decided. “You just love stringing me along, seeing as you’re such a smart ass.”

  “What a thing to say. You might end up with a lump of coal in your stocking.”

  “Few thousand years, I’ll have a diamond, so . . . What was she going to do with the money?”

  He sat back, smiled. The cop was back.

  “Tuck it away? For what? She had funds tucked. Didn’t live high because she didn’t want anyone to know. But she had her pretty baubles, locked up so she could look at them. Had jewelry insured,” she told him. “I got the paperwork on that. Over a quarter mil in sparkles. And she had her tune-ups. But that’s all piddly. Because the money was coming in in what you could call dribbles. But this was her big score. Big, fat lump sum, she’s figuring on. Must’ve had a plan for some of it.”

  “Property, perhaps. Or a trip. Art, jewelry.”

  “Got jewelry, and can’t wear it too much outside her own house. People would get ideas. But if she planned to relocate . . . I’ve got to check, see if she had a valid passport. When she got it, or renewed it. She’s got Bobby, but he’s grown up now, married now. Not so much at her beck and call. That’s a pisser.”

  “A new home, a new location. Somewhere she can live in the manner she deserves to live. A staff of some kind.”

  “Need someone to boss around, sure. This isn’t the kind of stake you just put in a bank somewhere. Especially since—you can put money on it—she planned to keep tapping you. Can’t stick around good old Texas, where people know you. You’re freaking rich now. Gotta enjoy it.”

  “What does that tell you regarding the investigation? If you find she’d made inquiries about a property, or travel, what does it give you besides busywork?”

  “Busywork’s underrated. Maybe she let something slip, to Bobby, to Zana, to someone else. Maybe we use Peabody’s favorite—there’s a hot young lover out there, someone she had by the short hairs, or someone who got greedy. Can circle back to revenge. One of her former charges is keeping tabs on her, or is being used by her, and gets wind she’s got a big deal going.”

  She nudged her plate aside. “I want to play this angle. You finished?”

  “Nearly. No dessert?”

  “I’m fine as is.”

  “They have gelato.” His grin was quick, brilliant. “Chocolate.”

  “Bastard.” She fought her inner war, her weakness. “You think we can get it to go?”

  It was interesting, Eve decided, when you looked in a direction that didn’t seem relevant. The little pieces that shuffled down. Maybe not into the puzzle yet, but waiting for you to find the fit.

  “Her passport’s current.” She scooped up the decadent delight of rich chocolate. “Had one for twelve years. And she traveled. Funny nobody mentioned that. Spain, Italy, France. She liked Europe, but there’s Rio, and Belize, and Bimini. Exotic locales.”

  “Nothing off planet?” he asked.

  “Nothing she used this passport for. I’m betting she liked sticking to terra firma. Off planet takes a lot of time, and a lot of money. And while she traveled, she was in and out—with few exceptions—in a few days. Longest I find here’s ten days in Italy. Went in through Florence. And had another trip there, one day, the week before she came to New York.”

  “Maybe a weakness for Tuscany,” Roarke suggested.

  “Qu
ick trips, though.” She drummed her fingers, ate more gelato. “Could be she made them on the q.t. Didn’t tell her son. I’ve got to go back, find out if she traveled alone or with a companion.”

  She studied the data. “Had a reason for going back to Italy right before she came here to make her score. Looking over there, you bet your ass. Thinking she might like to find herself a villa.”

  “It would take some time, but I could find out if she made inquiries about property with a realtor over there.”

  “She’d know something about the ins and out, wouldn’t she, with a son in the business.”

  She sat back, sighed. “So here’s one way. She’s looking to relocate, plop herself down to live the high life after she skins you.”

  “I object to the term. No one skins me.”

  “Yeah, but she doesn’t get that. Time to start enjoying her hard-earned nest egg. Deck herself out in all those glitters she’s been paying insurance premiums for. Time to kick up her heels. Got herself in tune for it. She’s tapped out a couple of her income sources, but they’re finite anyway. She hits the jackpot, and she can move on. Retire.”

  “What does she tell her family?”

  Think like her, Eve ordered herself. It wasn’t so hard to do. “Her son’s replaced her with a wife. Ungrateful bastard. Doesn’t have to tell him a damn thing. If she intended to tell him, you can bet she’s got something worked out: She won the lottery, got some inheritance, something out of the blue. But she doesn’t need Bobby anymore because she’s got someone on her string, someone who can do the grunt work when she needs it. They should be with her in New York, just in case.”

  She rolled her shoulders. “Or she’s going to shake her minion off, hire somebody fresh when she relocates. Who do you know in that area of Italy who handles real estate, could give us a hand with this?”

  “One or two people. However, it’s after one in the morning there.”

  “Oh, right.” She scowled at the clock. “I hate the whole time difference crap. It’s irritating. Okay, that waits until the morning.”

  “I hate to remind you, tomorrow’s Christmas Eve. We’re unlikely to find offices open, particularly in Europe where they believe in taking holidays. I can pull strings, but unless this is urgent, I hate to push this into someone’s holiday.”

  “See, see”—she waved her spoon—“Christmas is bogging me down. It can wait, it can wait,” she repeated. “More important to find out if she had a travel companion. It could just be the one little mistake. One little detail that moves this along.”

  “Then I’ll help you with that.”

  “What I want is to plug in all her flights.”

  “All?”

  “Yeah, all. Then we’re going to run the manifest through, each one, see if any dupe names pop. Or any name on my case file list.” She licked ice cream off her finger. “And yeah, I’m aware the transpo company offices are closed. Lazy bastards. And that accessing passenger information generally requires authorization.”

  He smiled, easily. “I didn’t say a thing.”

  “I’m just looking is all I’m doing. And if anything pops, then I’ll backtrack, go through channels. But I’m sick to fucking death of running in place.”

  “Still said nothing.”

  “But you’re thinking it.”

  “What I’m thinking is you need to move. I want your chair.”

  “Why?”

  “If I’m going to get this data, and we both know I can access it faster than you, I want the chair and the desk. Why don’t you deal with those dishes?”

  She grumbled, but got up. “You’re lucky I’ve got some holiday spirit and didn’t clock you for the ‘deal with those dishes’ crack.”

  “Ho, ho, ho.” He sat in her place and rolled up his sleeves. “Coffee’d be nice.”

  “Thin ice, Ace. Cracking under your expensive shoes.”

  “And a cookie. You ate most of my gelato.”

  “Did not,” she called from the kitchen. Well, yes, she had, but that was beside the point.

  Still, she wanted coffee herself, so she could as easily get two mugs. To amuse herself she got out a single minicookie, barely the size of her thumb. She put it and his mug on a plate.

  “I guess the least I can do is get you coffee and a cookie when you’re putting the time in for me.” She came up behind him, leaned down to plant a wifely kiss on the top of his head.

  Then she set the plate down. He glanced over at it, then up at her. “That’s cold, Eve. Even for you.”

  “I know. And fun, too. What’ve you got?”

  “I’m accessing her account, to determine what transportation company she used for her trips. When I have that, I’ll do a search on the dates that coordinate for her passport. Then I’ll get your manifests, and run a search there. I think that deserves a bleeding cookie.”

  “Like this one.” From behind her back she pulled a decorated sugar cookie. Whatever else she could say about Summerset, and there was plenty, the man could bake.

  “That’s more like it. Now why don’t you come and sit on my lap?”

  “Just get the data, pal. I know it’s insulting to ask, but are you going to have any trouble with CompuGuard on this?”

  “I’m ignoring that as you provided the cookie.”

  She left him to it, set up at her auxiliary comp.

  What, she wondered, did other married couples do after dinner? Hang and watch screen maybe, or go to their separate areas and fiddle with their hobbies or work. Talk on the ’link to pals or family. Have people over.

  They did some of that. Sometimes. Roarke had gotten her hooked on vids, especially the old black-and-whites from the early and mid-twentieth century. There were nights, here and there, they whiled away a couple hours that way—the way, she imagined, most considered normal.

  If it was normal to while away a couple hours in a home theater bigger—certainly lusher—than most of the public ones.

  Before Roarke had come into her life, she’d spent most nights alone, going over notes, gnawing at a case. Unless Mavis had pried her out for fun and games. She couldn’t have imagined herself like this, socked in with someone. So in tune with someone despite some of their elemental differences.

  Now she couldn’t imagine it any other way.

  With marriage on her mind, she moved to Bobby and Zana. They hadn’t been married long, so the assumption would be they’d spend a good deal of their time together. They worked together, lived together. Traveled, as least on this fatal trip, together.

  Her search turned up a passport for Bobby. The last stamp four years earlier. Australia. A couple of other, earlier trips, each spaced about a year apart. One to Portugal, one to London.

  Vacations, she decided. Annual jaunts. But nothing that required a passport since Australia.

  Other travel, maybe. Starting a new business—maybe shorter, cheaper trips.

  No passport for Zana, maiden name or married. Well, a lot of people never left the country. She hadn’t herself, before Roarke.

  But she sat back, considered. Wouldn’t Bobby want to take his new bride on some big trip? Honeymoon, whatever. Show her some part of the world, especially one he’d traveled to and enjoyed.

  That was one of Roarke’s deals, anyway. Let me show you the world.

  Of course, maybe they hadn’t had the time, or wanted to spend the money. Not yet. Maybe he’d decided to start with New York once the idea was popped by his mother. It made sense enough.

  But it was something to wonder about.

  She poked at the other fosters again, looking for some connection, some click. One in a cage, one dead, she thought.

  But what if—

  “Got your manifests here.”

  Distracted, she glanced over. “Already?”

  “One day you’ll afford me the awe I so richly deserve.”

  “You’re rich enough to afford your own awe. What about matches?”

  “If you’re in a hurry, you take half.” He tapp
ed keys. “There. Transferring to you. Handle it from there?”

  “I know how to do a search and match,” she muttered, and set it up to run. She swiveled around to look at him. “I’ve got these two long shots. Just plucking out of the air. One of the fosters is in a cage. Assaults, mostly. No family, no known associates in particular. Nothing in her jacket to indicate any real smarts, or connections. But maybe Trudy tried to hit her up along the line. So this career violent tendency decides to get back some of her own. Works a deal with somebody who’s close, or can get close to the mark. Take her out—got your revenge—make some money while you’re at it.”

  “How would this person know Trudy was going to New York now, with the idea of shaking us down, and be able to put this kill together so quickly?”

  “The kill’s of the moment. I still say that. Could’ve had the shill in place already. And yeah, I know it’s a long one. But I’m going to have another chat with the warden after Christmas. Maybe reach out to her last arresting officer.”

  “And the other shot in the dark?”

  “One of the fosters worked as a dancer in that club that was bombed a few years ago. Miami. Remember, a couple of bonzos got through the door, protesting sin or something. Things went wrong and the boomers blew. Took out over a hundred and fifty people.”

  “I don’t remember, sorry. Before you, I can’t say I paid as much attention to that sort of thing.” But he stopped what he was doing, considered it. “So she survived?”

  “No. At least she’s listed among the dead. But it was an underground club, and they run loose. Explosions, body parts flying. Blood, terror, confusion.”

  “I get the picture, thanks.” He sat back, walking his mind along the path she was taking. “So, she somehow survives, is misidentified, and lives to plot Trudy’s eventual demise?”

  “It’s an angle,” Eve said stubbornly. “There are others. Somebody close to her comes back on Trudy. Revenge again. A lover or a close friend. I can talk to some of the survivors anyway, some of the people she worked with. Maybe get a clearer picture of her at least.”