by J. D. Robb
“The doorman said she walked to the building. Maybe whoever gave her this crap transported her close to the building.”
“I don’t believe she could have driven herself in this state. Eve, I’ve never seen this combination of drugs—herbal and chemical, but with some of the derivatives sometimes used to aid in hypnosis, to relax the patient, help open them to suggestion. Some practitioners use small doses to aid in weight loss, rehabilitation of substance abuse, even anger management. But this combination?” Mira took a sip of tea from one of her delicate china cups. “I would want to do a full analysis myself, but I believe this would have left her open to post-suggestions with hallucinations and altered perceptions. The addition of phencyclidine?”
Eve wasn’t a chemistry whiz, but she was a cop. “That’s the base element for Zeus.”
“Yes, and while this amount and combination isn’t Zeus, it could cause someone to harm themselves. To burn themselves—even set fire to a building mistaking a flame for a flower, for instance. Or cut themselves believing a knife was a bar of soap. To fall, seeing a drop off a building as a set of stairs.”
“She stabbed her brother three times. She might have thought she was giving him a love tap. She fell fifty-two floors, maybe thinking she’d sprout wings and fly.” This fit, Eve thought. This worked for her, both brain and gut. “We may never know, but it’s pretty damn clear somebody fucked her up, and if she needed help getting to her brother’s place, they wanted him dead, too.”
Nodding, Mira brushed back a curve of rich brown hair. “Look for someone who’s skilled. This combination took time and practice to perfect. Someone also gifted. It’s very likely they are indeed a sensitive, as they read this victim very well. They also gained her trust, and I would say gained it quickly.
“It’s most likely a male—she would see a male as authoritative, experienced. Probably between forty and sixty. He’s experienced, he’s studied, and she wouldn’t have been as susceptible to a younger man.”
“Misses father, depends on older brother.”
“Yes. Your killer is a sociopath who exploits his own gift. He’s organized and intelligent, and enjoys having control over others, and looks for gain. He likes to live well. He may also be a psychopath, finding pleasure in causing death, yet he has no direct hand in the killing.”
“I found pieces of what the lab’s confirmed was a lapel recorder near her body.”
“Ah.” Mira nodded again. “No direct hand in the killing, but a desire to watch. To kill, essentially, without being there or getting his hands bloody. He’s unlikely a physical sort. A manipulator.”
“She was sleepwalking.”
Mira frowned over her tea. “The sleep aid should have prevented that.”
“The three times her fiancé found her at it, she was doing or saying weird things. Pouring tea for a party, down in the kitchen; crawling under the bed saying she needed to go down the rabbit hole. Sitting on the bed, waking him up with a riddle about a raven and a writing desk.”
“Alice in Wonderland.”
“That’s what Louise said.”
“Interesting.” Mira sat back in her blue scoop chair, sipped more tea. “A sort of test, I’d think, laying a base for the post-hypnotic suggestions. An interesting choice. A kind of surreal story filled with a young girl’s bizarre adventures. Some interpret it as drug-based—the hookah-smoking caterpillar, the mushrooms that cause Alice to grow, and so on. He may be an addict himself. A combination of psychic abilities and hallucinogens would give him a heady sense of power.”
“He kills—or rather causes another to kill because he can, and because it gives him a sense of power. Watches, from his . . . client’s point-of-view—that gives him a front-row seat.”
“Yes, and Alice again. Perhaps delight; a childish delight in watching the murder and suicide he’s manipulated.”
“He’s probably done it before.”
“It worked so seamlessly, really, it’s difficult to believe this was his first.”
“Then I’d better find him before he sets the next one up.” Heading back, she switched from elevator to glide, moving briskly, and spotted Roarke the minute she turned in to Homicide. He sat on the corner of Jenkinson’s desk holding a conversation that had her detective grinning.
When he saw her, he rose, strolled over. “Lieutenant.”
“Are you here to report a crime?”
“No. I had a meeting nearby and took a chance my wife might be about. And here she is.”
“Not for long.” But she considered her options. “How much time do you have?”
“That would depend.”
“If you’ve got an hour, maybe two, I’d split Darlene’s list with Peabody.”
“Then I’ve got an hour, maybe two.”
“Good. Hold on a minute.” She stepped over to Peabody’s desk. “See if Feeney can spare McNab. If so, take him with you and check out the last half of Darlene’s list. If McNab can’t do it, take Uniform Carmichael. Roarke and I will work on the first half.”
“Sure. I’ll tag him now.”
“McNab or Carmichael, Peabody. Good eyes and experience. We’re looking for a sociopath with at least some psychic abilities, one who may be an addict. An interest or obsession with Alice in Wonderland is likely, so look for any sign of that. Psychopathic pathology’s also very probable.”
“Solid backup because he could try to put the whammy on me.”
“Solid backup.” Eve left it at that, turned away, and noted that Roarke must have slipped into her office and back, as he held her coat.
“Thanks. Report after every meet,” she told Peabody, and strode out, swinging on the coat as she walked.
“You probably know more about this Alice in Wonderland stuff than I do.”
“I know the story,” Roarke said. “I’ve read the books, and seen a variety of vid interpretations.”
“Like I said, you know more than I do, so you’ll be handy. The person we’re after likely knows a lot about it, too. You might catch something I’d miss.”
“Such as a white rabbit or mad hatter?”
“If you say so. I’ll drive,” she said when they reached the garage.
“You don’t know the story?” he asked her.
Her childhood hadn’t been prone to bedtime stories. Then again, she thought, neither had Roarke’s.
“Some kid falls down a rabbit hole, which makes no sense because rabbits are a lot smaller than kids. Weird stuff happens.”
“It’s considerably more entertaining than that. Though it was written as a children’s story, it has fascinating symbolism, intrigue, social commentary.”
“Whatever it’s got, somebody who may have psychic abilities and certainly has access to and knowledge of hallucinogens is using that knowledge, and those possible abilities, to kill. And at least with Darlene Fitzwilliams, some of this Alice stuff played in. It’s unlikely she was the first,” Eve continued as she navigated traffic. “But I can’t run like crimes. I can’t know if it’s a murder/suicide trend, just murder, just suicide. Or maybe ruled accidental when somebody walked in front of a maxibus because they thought they were chasing that white rabbit thing.”
“People will ruin everything, won’t they? A beloved story becomes twisted to kill.”
“Something strikes you Alice-like, let me know.” Unwilling to take the time to hunt up street parking, she pulled into a lot. “There’s two within walking distance.”
They got nothing from either, then backtracked to the parking lot. Eve headed across town to the East Village.
“It strikes me how much of your day is routinely spent doing this. Talking to people who turn out to have no connection to your case or who may give you another line to tug.”
“That’s why they call it a job. This next one? Goes by the name of Madam Dupres. She even had her name change
d legally. But she started out as Evelyn Basset, born in Yonkers, fifty-four years ago. Some twenty-five years back, she had a pretty thriving business.”
This time Eve hit on a street spot and zipped into it at an angle and speed that had Roarke’s eyebrows lifting.
“Had a rep, had a screen show, made a bunch of money, and lost it all when her husband-slash–business manager ran off with her assistant. He’d also gotten her to sign over the bulk of her earnings along the way, so he could—legally, if not ethically—walk away with the dough.”
“I imagine her reputation suffered.”
“You got that.” Eve stepped onto the sidewalk with him, gestured north. “Who wants to shell out for a psychic who doesn’t know her spouse is screwing around on the side and who’s going to end up leaving her broke? Part of her thing was connecting people with dead loved ones.”
Eve stopped in front of a Ukrainian restaurant, nodded at the sign on a skinny doorway. “Now she runs her shtick out of a second-floor apartment over this place.” Eve pressed the buzzer, mildly surprised when it buzzed back seconds later to unlock the narrow door. “The thing is,” she said as they went into a dim stairwell, “she’s clean. No criminal, no litigations I could find. In fact, she worked with cops numerous times in her heyday. Specialized in finding missing kids—the reports claim she was instrumental in locating a number of them. So I figure, if Darlene did her due diligence, this is one she would have come to.”
The entrance to apartment 200 boasted a bold red door and a brass knocker in the shape of a dragon. Eve took the dragon by the tail and knocked.
The door opened.
The name had given Eve an image of turbans and colorful scarves, but Madam Dupres stood about five-foot-five in a simple dress as boldly red as the door with her dark curling hair loose and unstyled. A number of large and glittery rings adorned her fingers, so that was something.
“Lieutenant Dallas. Roarke.”
“That’s right.”
She smiled as she stepped back. “No mind reading necessary. I recognize you. Please come in.”
The apartment—surprisingly spacious; Eve saw it ran the length and width of the restaurant below—reflected a quiet taste and elegance. A collection of crystal balls in a wall case caught the sunlight and seemed attractive rather than occult.
“I don’t read anyone without permission,” she said. “So discourteous. You’ll have to tell me what I can do for you, but first, please sit. It’s coffee you prefer, isn’t it? I’d be happy to serve you.”
“We’re fine.” Eve took a seat in a high-backed chair with curved legs while Roarke took its twin, and the madam settled on a long, low couch.
“I’ve read of your work—both of you—and very much enjoyed Nadine Furst’s book on your investigation of the Icoves. It’s my sense you don’t generally seek the services I provide.”
“We’re here on official business. Did you know Darlene Fitzwilliams?”
“Fitzwilliams?” Madam Dupres’s dark eyes narrowed. Her index finger went to her right temple, pressed. “Darlene. Why?”
“Last night she stabbed her brother to death, then jumped off his fifty-second-floor terrace to her own death.”
“Death? Two deaths?” Now all four fingers pressed, and her color drained. “What time? Could you tell me what time they died?”
“Between eight and eight thirty last night.”
“I . . . I’ve been in meditation. I was disturbed, felt something dark crowding me. Shortly after eight last night.”
“Is that so?”
“I dreamed of death—a waking dream—so much blood, such grief. There was no ignoring such grief, so I went into meditation, inside a circle of light.”
“Are you going to tell me you know why Darlene killed her brother and herself?”
“Fitzwilliams?” Pain clouded her eyes. “I don’t . . . Was she— I’m sorry, terrible headache.” She got to her feet. “It came on so quickly. I need to take a blocker. I want to help, but . . . She was young, wasn’t she? Very beautiful and young and in love and sad and— I’m sorry. If you’ll excuse me for just a moment.”
She walked away quickly, turned in to a doorway.
“Meditation, circle of light.” Eve pushed to her feet. “She knows something. Your bullshit meter’s as tuned as mine. What’s your take?”
“The pain was real.”
“Yeah.” Frustrated, Eve jammed her hands in her pockets. “Yeah, it was. We’ll give her a minute. There’s something . . . She avoided a yes or no. Did you know her or not? And she damn well did. People don’t go pale and sick over the death of a stranger.”
Impatient to get back to it, Eve looked around. “The place looks normal, quiet and normal. Where’s all her trappings?”
She circled the room, glancing at crystals, candles, then angled to look into a neat kitchen with white cabinets.
“She’s taking too long.”
Suspicion rose up to twine with impatience. Eve crossed to the doorway, saw the pretty bedroom beyond. Across from it another doorway opened to a kind of cozy sitting room, with dozens of white candles.
Circle of light, she thought, and started to step into the bedroom, to call again, when she heard the sound of breaking glass.
She charged in, tried the closed door, found it locked. As Roarke rushed in behind her, Eve kicked the door once, cursed, kicked it a second time.
Dupres lay on the white tiled floor of the bathroom, blood pooling around her from the deep gash in her thigh.
“Call for a bus!” Eve shouted.
Grabbing towels, she kicked the shards of broken mirror out of her way, crouched down to bind the towels on the wound.
“She’s bleeding out—gashed the femoral artery. For Christ’s sake.”
“On their way.” Roarke took another towel, wrapped it around the deep gash in Dupres’s hand.
Dupres’s eyes opened, stared into Eve’s. “Beware the Mad Hatter.”
“Who is that? Give me a name.”
“Lies, all lies. All his words, even his name. Dark is his truth. Death is his joy. I sent her to him. I sent her to her death. He’ll seek yours now. Beware the Mad Hatter,” she repeated, and the eyes staring into Eve’s died.
CHAPTER NINE
Having someone die under her hands pissed her off. Having someone die under her hands during a damn interview added a whole new level to pissed.
She watched the MTs pronounce Dupres and wished she had something handy to kick into pulp.
“There was nothing you could have done,” Roarke said.
“I let her walk off, walk out of sight to get a damn blocker.”
“The pain was real,” he reminded her. “You’d need to be psychic yourself to have known she intended to kill herself.”
“Yeah.” Eve loosened the fists she’d balled into the pockets. “The pain was real,” she repeated, and yanked out her ’link to contact Morris.
“I’m sending one in to you.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Self-termination—broke a mirror, jabbed a shard into her femoral artery.”
“That would do it.”
“She had a severe and sudden headache a minute before she did it. It came on during the interview when I asked her about Darlene Fitzwilliams. I think we’re dealing with the same thing here. Drugs and mind-control. Some sort of post-hypnotic trigger. Look for any similarities with Darlene Fitzwilliams, will you?”
“I will. Mira might be helpful here, as she’s trained in hypnotherapy.”
“I’ve talked to her, and will again. Do me a solid, send the dead wagon.” She gave him the address, signed off. Then immediately tagged Peabody to have her and McNab report to her.
“Dupres was a link,” Eve said to Roarke. “We’re going to turn this place inside out, find out where Dupres sent D
arlene Fitzwilliams. Mad Hatter, my ass.”
“But you’re considering the fact both dead women made references to Alice in Wonderland.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I’ll start on the electronics while you consider.”
“McNab can handle it. This is going to take longer than the hour or two I asked for.”
“She died on my watch as well, Eve.” Roarke took her hand briefly. “I’m fully in it now.”
Understanding, she started her search in the bedroom.
Dupres had a conservative wardrobe—nothing extravagant, but good fabrics, good quality. The same ran true with jewelry, accessories. Nothing there shouted mind-reading psychic who talks to dead people.
No sign, Eve noted, anyone else had spent any time there—no sex toys or enhancements, no men’s belongings. No women’s belongings, she noted, other than what appeared to belong to Dupres.
Oddly, in the underwear drawer, like at Darlene’s, she found a small notebook. A paper book with a good leather binding. She frowned as she paged through, and was still standing there reading when Peabody stepped in.
“The morgue’s right behind me,” she said, and glanced into the bathroom. “That’s a lot of blood.”
“Gashing the femoral artery will empty you out pretty fast.”
“Why kill herself if she’d drugged Darlene into murder/suicide? Did she try to . . . you know?”
“Put the whammy on me? No. And I don’t think she killed herself because she worked Darlene into killing. I think the same person who did that, did this.”
“But . . . you were right here. Was she high?”
“Didn’t appear to be, and that’s troubling. But it fits for me.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s like a diary, but not. Just observations, thoughts, little poems. She mentions bad dreams, headaches, memory blanks. Sleepwalking.”
“Like Darlene.”
“‘The Mad Hatter and the March Hare hold their tea parties, but the tea is blood. The Dormouse sits in the corner, counting the money.’ What’s a dormouse?”