The In Death Collection, Books 11-15

by J. D. Robb

  He closed his eyes, seemed to draw himself in. “Can we sit down?”

  He dropped into a chair. “I’m sorry I shouted at you. I can’t stand people saying that about Marsha. I can’t stand knowing people, friends, think it of her. She doesn’t deserve that.”

  “There were letters found in her drawer.”

  “I don’t care about the letters. She wouldn’t have cheated on me. We had . . .”

  He glanced back toward the child’s room where the little girl was singing tunelessly. “Look, we had a good sex life. One of the reasons we married so young was that we couldn’t keep our hands off each other, and Marsha believed strongly in marriage. I’ll tell you what I think.” He leaned forward. “I think someone was obsessed with her, fantasized or something. He must have sent her those letters. I’ll never know why she didn’t tell me. Maybe, I guess maybe, she didn’t want to worry me. I think he came here when I was in Columbus, and he killed her because he couldn’t have her.”

  He was registering high on the sincere meter, Eve thought. Such things could be feigned, but where was the point here? Why insist the victim was pure when painting her with adultery served the purpose? “If that was the case, Mr. Stibbs, you still have no idea who that person might be?”

  “None. I’ve thought about it. For the first year afterward, I hardly thought about anything else. I wanted to believe he’d be found and punished, that there’d be some kind of payment for what he did. We were happy, Lieutenant. We didn’t have a goddamn care in the world. And then, it was over.” He pressed his lips together. “Just over.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Stibbs.” Eve waited a beat. “That’s a cute kid.”

  “Tracie?” He passed a hand over his face as if coming back to the present. “The light of my life.”

  “So you remarried.”

  “Almost three years ago.” He let out a sigh, gave his shoulders a little shake. “Maureen’s great. She and Marsha were friends. She’s one of the ones who helped me through that first year. I don’t know what I’d’ve done without her.”

  Even as he spoke, the front door opened. A pretty brunette with an armful of groceries kicked the door shut with her foot. “Hey, team! I’m home. You’ll never guess what I . . .”

  She trailed off when she saw Eve and Peabody. And as her gaze fastened on Peabody’s uniform, Eve saw fear jolt over her face.

  Chapter 2

  Boyd must have seen it, too, as he got up and crossed to her quickly. “Nothing’s wrong.” He touched her arm, a light gesture of reassurance before he took the bags from her. “They’re just here about Marsha. For a routine followup.”

  “Oh, well . . . Tracie?”

  “In her room. She’s—”

  Even as he spoke, the child shot out like a little blonde bullet, launched herself at her mother’s legs. “Mommy! We go swing!”

  “We’ll get out of your way as quickly as possible,” Eve said. “Would you mind if we talked to you for a moment, Mrs. Stibbs?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I can . . . The groceries.”

  “Tracie and I’ll put them away, won’t we, partner?”

  “I’d rather—”

  “She doesn’t think we know where anything goes.” Boyd interrupted his wife with a wink for their daughter. “We’ll show her. Come on, cutie. Kitchen duty.”

  The little girl raced ahead of him, chattering in the strange foreign tongue of toddlers.

  “I’m sorry to inconvenience you,” Eve began. Her gaze, steady on Maureen’s face, was cool, flat, and blank. “This won’t take long. You were a friend of Marsha Stibbs?”

  “Yes, of both her and Boyd. This is very upsetting for Boyd.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it is. How long had you known Mrs. Stibbs before her death?”

  “A year, a little longer.” She looked desperately toward the kitchen where there was rattling and laughter. “She’s been gone almost six years now. We have to put it behind us.”

  “Six days, six years, someone still took her life. Were you close?”

  “We were friends. Marsha was very outgoing.”

  “Did she ever confide in you that she was seeing someone else?”

  Maureen opened her mouth, hesitated, then shook her head. “No. I don’t know anything. I talked to the police when it happened, and told them everything I could. What happened was horrible, but there’s no changing it. We’ve got a new life now. A good life, a quiet one. You coming here like this, it’ll only make Boyd grieve again. I don’t want my family upset. I’m sorry, but I’d like you to go now.”

  Outside in the hall, Peabody glanced back as Eve strode to the elevator. “She knows something.”

  “Oh yeah, she does.”

  “I figured you’d push her a little.”

  “Not on her turf.” Eve stepped into the elevator. She was already calculating, already resetting the pieces of the puzzle. “Not with her kid there, and Stibbs. Marsha’s waited this long, a little more time won’t matter to her.”

  “You think he’s clean though.”

  “I think . . .” Eve pulled the file and disc out of her bag, held it out. “You should work it.”

  “Sir?”

  “Work the case, Peabody. Close the case.”

  Jaw dropping, Peabody stared. “Me? Like the primary? On a homicide?”

  “You’ll have to work it mostly on your own time, especially if we get something active. Read the file, study the reports and statements. Re-interview. You know the drill.”

  “You’re giving me a case?”

  “You got questions, you ask them. I’ll consult if and when you need it. Copy me on all data and progress reports.”

  Peabody felt the adrenaline surge through her blood, and the nerves flood her belly. “Yes, sir. Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

  “Don’t let Marsha Stibbs down.”

  Peabody hugged the file to her breast like a beloved child. And kept it there all the way back to Central.

  As they rode up from the garage, Peabody sent Eve a sidelong look. “Lieutenant?”

  “Hmm.”

  “I wonder if maybe I could ask McNab to assist on the electronic data. The victim’s ’links, apartment building’s security discs, and so on.”

  Eve jammed her hands in her pockets. “It’s your case.”

  “It’s my case,” Peabody repeated, in an awed whisper. She was still grinning, ear to ear, when they headed down the corridor to the bull pen.

  “What the hell is that racket?” Eve’s eyebrows drew together, her fingers danced instinctively over her weapon at the sound of shouts, whistles, and general mayhem rolling out of the Homicide Division.

  She stepped in first, scanned the room. No one was at their desk or in their cube. At least a dozen duly authorized officers of the law were crowded into the center of the room, having what sounded suspiciously like a party.

  Her nose twitched. She smelled bakery goods.

  “What the hell’s going on here!” She had to shout, and her voice still fell short of cutting through the din. “Pearson, Baxter, Delricky!” Since she accompanied this with a quick punch on Pearson’s shoulder, a sharp elbow jab to Baxter’s gut as she pushed through the crowd, she managed to snag some attention. “Are you all under the illusion that death’s taken a fucking holiday? Where the hell’d you get that cupcake?”

  Even as she jabbed a finger, Baxter stuffed what was left of it in his mouth. As a result, his explanation was incoherent. He merely grinned around the frosting and pointed.

  She saw it now—cupcakes, cookies, and what appeared to have been a pie before a pack of wolves had descended on it. And she spotted two civilians in the middle of that pack. The tall, skinny man and the robust, pretty woman were both beaming smiles and pouring some sort of pale pink liquid out of an enormous jug.

  “Stand down! Every one of you, stand down and go back about your business. This isn’t a damn tea party.”

  Before she could push her way through to the civilia
ns, she heard Peabody scream.

  She whirled, weapon leaping into her hand, and was nearly plowed down as her aide streaked by and launched herself at the civilians.

  The man caught her, and skinny or not managed to lift the sturdy Peabody right off her feet. The woman spun, her long blue skirts swirling as she threw out her arms and made an odd and effective Peabody sandwich.

  “There’s my girl. There’s my DeeDee.” The man’s face glowed with such obvious adoration, Eve’s hand slid away from her weapon and dangled at her side.

  “Daddy.” With something between a sob and a giggle, Peabody buried her face against his neck.

  “Chokes me up,” Baxter murmured and snagged another cupcake. “Got here about fifteen minutes ago. Brought the good stuff with them. Man, these things are lethal,” he added and chomped into another cupcake.

  Eve drummed her fingers on her thigh. “What kind of pie was that?”

  Baxter grinned. “Exceptional,” he told her, and strolled back to his desk.

  The woman loosened her death grip around Peabody’s waist and turned. She was remarkably pretty, with the same dark hair as her daughter worn in a long waterfall down her back. Her blue skirt swept down to simple rope sandals. Her blouse was long and loose and the color of buttercups, and over it were at least a half-dozen chains and pendants.

  Her face was softer than Peabody’s, with lines of time fanning out from the corners of direct and gleaming brown eyes. She moved like a dancer when she crossed to Eve, both hands outstretched.

  “You’re Lieutenant Dallas. I’d have known you anywhere.” She gripped both of Eve’s hands in hers. “I’m Phoebe, Delia’s mother.”

  Her hands were warm, a little rough at the palms, and studded with rings. Bracelets clanged and jangled on her wrists.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Peabody.”

  “Phoebe.” She smiled, and still gripping Eve’s hands drew her forward. “Sam, let the girl loose so you can meet Lieutenant Dallas.”

  He shifted, but kept his arm tight around Peabody’s shoulders. “I’m so happy to meet you.” He took Eve’s hand, still cupped in his wife’s. “I feel like I already have, with everything Peabody’s told us about you. And Zeke. We’ll never be able to thank you enough for what you did for our son.”

  A little uneasy with all that good will beaming out at her, Eve slipped her hand free. “How’s he doing?”

  “Very well. I’m sure he’d have sent his best if he’d known we were coming.”

  He smiled then, slow and easy. She could see the resemblance now, between him and Peabody’s brother. The narrow, apostle’s face, the eyes of dreamy gray. But there was something sharp in Sam Peabody’s eyes, something that had Eve’s neck prickling.

  This man wasn’t the puppy dog his son was.

  “Give him mine when you talk to him. Peabody, take some personal time.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Phoebe said. “I wonder if it’s possible for us to have a little of your time. You must be busy,” she went on before Eve could speak, “but I’d hoped we might have a meal together tonight. With you and your husband. We have gifts for you.”

  “You don’t have to give us anything.”

  “The gifts aren’t from obligation but from affection, and we hope you’ll enjoy them. Delia’s told us so much about you, and Roarke and your home. It must be a magnificent place. I hope Sam and I will have an opportunity to see it.”

  Eve could feel the box being built around her, see the lid slowly closing. And Phoebe only continued to smile serenely while Peabody suddenly took an avid interest in the ceiling.

  “Sure. Ah. You could come for dinner.”

  “We’d love to. Would eight o’clock work?”

  “Yeah, eight’s fine. Peabody knows the way. Anyway, welcome to New York. I’ve got some . . . stuff,” she finished lamely and eased back to escape.

  “Lieutenant? Sir? Be right back,” Peabody murmured to her parents and lit out after Eve. Before they’d gotten to her office door, the noise level in the bull pen rose again.

  “They can’t help it,” Peabody said quickly. “My father really likes to bake, and he’s always bringing food places.”

  “How the hell’d they get all that here on a plane?”

  “Oh, they don’t fly. They’d have come in their camper. Baking all the way,” she added with a fluttery smile. “Aren’t they great?”

  “Yeah, but you’ve got to tell them not to bring cupcakes every time they come in to see you. We’ll end up with a bunch of fat detectives in sugar comas.”

  “Snagged you one.” Peabody brought out the cupcake she held behind her back. I’ll just take a couple hours, Dallas, get them settled in.”

  “Take the rest of the day.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Really. Um. . .” She winced, then closed the office door. “There’s this thing I should tell you. About my mother. She has the power.”

  “The power of what?”

  “The power to make you do things you don’t want to do, or don’t think you want to do. And she’ll get you to say stuff you don’t mean to say. And you may even babble.”

  “I don’t babble.”

  “You will,” Peabody said mournfully. “I love her. She’s amazing, but she’s got this thing. She just looks at you and knows.”

  Frowning, Eve sat. “Is she a sensitive?”

  “No. My father is, but he’s really strict about not infringing on people’s privacy. She’s just . . . a mother. It’s something to do with being a mother, but she’s got this deal in spades. Man, Mom sees all, knows all, rules all. Half the time you don’t even know she’s doing it. Like you inviting them for dinner tonight, when you never invite people to dinner.”

  “I do, too.”

  “Uh-uh. Roarke does. You could’ve said you were busy, or hey, fine, let’s meet at some restaurant or whatever, but she wanted to come to your house for dinner, so you asked her.”

  Eve had to stop herself from squirming in her chair. “I was being polite. I do know how.”

  “No, you were trapped in The Look.” Peabody shook her head. “Even you are powerless against it. I just thought I should tell you.”

  “Scram, Peabody.”

  “Scramming, sir. Oh and um . . .” She hesitated at the door. “I had a sort of date with McNab tonight, so maybe he could come along to dinner. That way, you know, he could meet them without it being as weird as it would be otherwise.”

  Eve put her head in her hands. “Jesus.”

  “Thanks! I’ll see you tonight.”

  Alone, Eve sulked. She scowled. Then she ate the cupcake.

  “So they painted my office, and stole my candy. Again.” At home, in the spacious living area with its glossy antiques and gleaming glass, Eve paced the priceless Oriental carpet. Roarke had only just arrived home, so she’d had no one to bitch to for the past hour.

  As far as she was concerned, a bitching partner was one of the top perks of marriage.

  “And Peabody finished up all the paperwork while I was gone, which meant I didn’t even have that to do.”

  “She should be ashamed. Imagine, your aide doing paperwork behind your back.”

  “Watch the smart-ass remarks, pal, because you’ve got some explaining to do as well.”

  He just stretched out his legs, crossed his feet at the ankles. “Ah. So how did Peabody and McNab enjoy Bimini?”

  “You’re a real Lord Bountiful, aren’t you? Sending them off to some island so they can run around naked and slide down waterfalls.”

  “I take that to mean they had a good time.”

  “Gel-beds,” she muttered. “Naked monkeys.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She shook her head. “You’ve got to stop interfering in this . . . thing they’ve got going.”

  “Maybe I will,” he said, lazily. “When you stop seeing their relationship as some sort of bugaboo.”

  “Bugaboo? What the hell is tha
t?” She scooped a frustrated hand through her hair. “I don’t see their thing as a bugaboo because I don’t even know what that means. Cops—”

  “Deserve lives,” he interrupted. “Like everyone else. Relax, Lieutenant. Our Peabody has a good head on her shoulders.”

  Blowing out a breath, Eve dropped into a chair. “Bugaboo.” She snorted. “That’s probably not even a word, and if it is, it’s a really stupid word. I gave her a case today.”

  He reached over idly to toy with the fingers she’d been tapping restlessly against her knee. “You didn’t mention you’d caught a case today.”

  “I didn’t. I dug one out of the cold files. Six years back. Woman, pretty, young, upwardly mobile, married. Husband’s out of town, comes back and finds her dead in the bathtub. Homicide poorly disguised as self-termination or accident. His alibi’s solid, and he comes off clean as a whistle. Everyone interviewed says how they were the perfect couple, happy as clams.”

  “Do you ever wonder how we determine the happiness of the clam?”

  “I’m going to give that some real thought later. Anyway, there are letters hidden in her underwear drawer. Really explicit sex letters from someone who signs his name C.”

  “Extramarital affair, lover’s spat, murder?”

  “The primary of record thought so.”

  “But you don’t?”

  “Nobody ever found the guy, nobody ever saw the guy, nobody she knew ever heard her speak of the guy. Or so they said. I went by to see the husband, met his new wife and kid. Little girl, couple years old.”

  “One could assume, justifiably, that after his period of mourning, he moved on, made a new life.”

  “One could assume,” she replied.

  “Not that I ever would, of course. Under similar circumstances, I’d wander aimlessly, a broken man, lost and without purpose.”

  She looked at him skeptically. “Is that so?”

  “Naturally. Now you’re supposed to say something along the lines of you having no life at all without me in it.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She laughed when he bit the fingers he’d been playing with. “So back to the real world. I think I know how it went down. A couple of good, hard pushes and it’s closed instead of cold.”