by J. D. Robb
“It must,” she agreed, nodding at Eve. “Life is to be lived. You’ll look for who did this, and perhaps you’ll find them. But the punishment of our master is greater and more terrible than any you could invent.”
“Your master isn’t my concern. Murder is. Since you have an interest in the deceased, maybe you’ll let me take a look around.”
“Get a warrant, and you’re welcome.” The tranq had clouded her eyes, but her voice was strong enough when she stood. “You’re more a fool than I originally thought if you believe I had anything to do with this. He was one of ours. He was loyal. It is against the law to harm a loyal member of the cult.”
“And he talked to me last night in a privacy booth. Did the smoke tell you what he told me, Selina?”
Her eyes shifted, darkened. “You’ll have to find other waters to fish in, Dallas. I’m tired, Alban. Show them out.” She glided a way, back through the arch.
“There’s nothing we can do for you, Lieutenant. Selina needs to rest.” He glanced toward the arch, worry in his eyes. “I need to tend her.”
“Got you trained, does she?” With light disdain coating her voice, Eve rose. “Do you do tricks, too?”
Sadly, he shook his head. “My devotion to Selina is personal. She has powers, and the powerful have needs. I meet hers, gratefully.” He walked back into the foyer, opened the door. “We would like to take Lobar’s body when it’s possible. We have our death ceremony.”
“So does his family, and they come ahead of you.”
“What do we have on this Alban?” Eve demanded the moment they were outside in the now drenching rain.
“Next to nothing.” Peabody ducked into the car and immediately felt more at ease. She knew it was foolish to hope she never had to go back inside that building, but she hoped in any case. “No priors, next to no background. If he was born with a name other than Alban, it doesn’t pop.”
“There’s more. There’s always more.”
Not so, Eve thought, drumming her fingers against the wheel. She’d once investigated another suspicious character and had found little to nothing. His only name was Roarke.
“Look again,” she ordered and pulled away from the curb.
“Funny, isn’t it?” she continued while Peabody plugged in her data unit. “There’s next to no traffic on this block. Turn the corner…” She did so and immediately hit a snarl of nasty and comforting vehicular traffic, bumping bad-temperedly through the rain. People hustled along sidewalks and glides, huddled in doorways. Two glide-cart operators on opposing corners hunched under ratty awnings and scowled at each other.
“People have instincts they’re not even aware of.” Still less than comfortable, Peabody glanced back, as if expecting something not quite human might be scrabbling behind them. “There’s a bad feeling around that building.”
“It’s brick and glass.”
“Yeah, but places tend to take on the personalities of the people who live in them.”
A car turned the corner ahead, blasting its horn at the sea of pedestrians who streamed across against the go light. Insults were cheerfully hurled both verbally and through equally graphic hand signals. Someone spat.
Steam poured up through the vents from the underground system in dirty clouds. It tangled thickly with the smoke belching from a ratty and obviously under code glida grill fighting its way through the mass of wet humanity. A level up, the nearest skywalk shuddered to a halt and sent all its passengers into a riot of cursing and complaints.
Overhead, a tourist blimp blasted out a spiel of the advantages and highlights of living in an urban wonderland.
Peabody took a cleansing breath, pleased to be back in the midst of the arrogant and crowded New York she understood. “Take Roarke’s place,” she continued. “It’s grand and elegant and intimidating, but it’s also sexy and mysterious.” She was too busy fiddling with the unit to notice the amused look Eve shot her. “My parents’ place? It’s all open and warm and a little confused.”
“What about your place, Peabody? What’s that?”
“Temporary,” Peabody said definitely. “Dallas, your car unit isn’t cooperating here. I should be able to transfer data to—” She broke off as Eve leaned over, smacked the dash above the car screen. An image popped on, wobbling drunkenly. “That’s some better,” Peabody decided and requested a run on Alban.
Alban—no known alternate name—born 3-22-2020 Omaha, Nebraska.
“Funny,” Eve interrupted, “he didn’t look corn fed.”
ID number, the computer continued with a definite hiccup in its program, 31666-LRT-99. Parents unknown. Marital status, single. No known means of support. No financial data available.
“Interesting. Sounds like he’s leeching off Selina. Criminal records, all arrests.”
No criminal record.
“Education?”
Unknown.
“Our boy’s wiped, or had somebody wipe records,” Eve told Peabody. “You don’t get to be nearly forty years old without generating more data than this. He’s got connections somewhere.”
She needed Feeney, she thought grumpily. Feeney could tickle the computer and trick additional data. Instead, she was going to have to go to Roarke and add another layer to his involvement.
“Well, shit.” She pulled up in front of Spirit Quest, frowned at the Closed sign on the door. “Run up for a look-see, Peabody. Maybe she’s inside.”
“Got an umbrella or a rain shield?”
Eve arched a brow. “Are you trying to be funny?”
Peabody only sighed, then pushed out of the car. She plodded and splashed through the rain, peered into windows. Shivering a little, she turned back, shook her soaking head, then groaned when Eve jerked a thumb toward the apartment over the shop. Resigned, Peabody trudged around the side, climbed a set of rickety metal stairs. Moments later, she was back, streaming water.
“No answer,” she told Eve. “Minimal security. Unless you count the swatch of Saint-John’s-wort over the entrance.”
“She has a swatch of warts? That’s disgusting.”
“Not warts.” Despite her wet uniform and dripping hair, Peabody indulged in a good laugh. “It’s a plant. Saint-John’s-wort.” Amused enough, she dug into her pocket for her sprig. “Like this. It’s for protection. Guards against evil.”
“You carry plants in your pocket, Officer?”
“I do now.” Peabody pushed it back in her pocket. “Want some?”
“No, thanks, I prefer trusting my weapon to guard against evil.”
“I consider this my clutch piece.”
“Whatever works for you.” Eve scanned the area. “Let’s try that café place across the street. Maybe they know why she’s closed in the middle of a business morning.”
“Maybe they’ve got decent coffee,” Peabody said and sneezed twice, hard. “If I catch a cold, I’ll kill myself. It takes me weeks to throw one of those suckers off.”
“Maybe you need a plant to cart around that wards off common germs.” Leaving it at that, Eve hopped out of the car, coded the locks, and jogged across the street into Coffee Ole.
The stab at a Mexican theme wasn’t bad, she decided. Bright colors—heavy on orange—gave it a sunny appearance even on a filthy day. It might have fallen far short of Roarke’s gorgeous villa on the west coast of Mexico, but it had a certain tacky charm with its plastic flowers and papier-maˆché bulls. Bright mariachi music piped through the speakers.
Either the rain or the ambiance had brought in a crowd. But as Eve scanned the room, she noted that the people packed around tables weren’t wolfing down plates of enchiladas. Most were huddled over single stingy cups of what smelled remotely like overboiled soy coffee.
“Baseball’s closing in on the league titles, isn’t it, Peabody?”
Peabody sneezed again. “Baseball? I guess. Arena ball’s my game.”
“Uh-huh. Seems to me there a pennant race going on. Pivotal game today. I imagine lots of money’s going to chan
ge hands.”
Peabody’s head was starting to feel stuffy—a very bad sign—but it was still clear enough for her to latch on. “You figure this is a front, an illegal betting parlor.”
“Just a hunch. We may be able to use it.” She sidled up to the counter, tagged a harassed-looking man. Short of stature, dark of complexion, weary of eye.
“Eat in or carry out?”
“Neither,” she began, then relented as she heard Peabody sniffle. “One coffee, for her. And a couple of answers.”
“I’ve got coffee.” He swiveled around to plug thick dark brew into a cup barely bigger than a thimble. “I got no answers.”
“Maybe you should hear the questions.”
“Lady, I got a full house here. I serve coffee. I got no time for conversation.” He dumped the cup on the counter and would have backed away, but Eve snagged his wrist. “What are the house odds on the game today?”
His eyes shifted left and right before settling on her face. But he’d spotted Peabody and her uniform. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know, if me and my pal here settle in for a few hours, your business is going into the recycler. Personally, I don’t give a good damn about your business, any of your business. But I could.” Still holding his wrist, she turned her head and stared hard at two of the men seated at the counter.
It took less than ten seconds for them to decide to drink coffee elsewhere. “How long do you think it’d take me to clear this place out?”
“What do you want? I make my contribution. I’m covered.”
She let him go. It annoyed her to find out that he had cop protection. Didn’t surprise her, just annoyed. “I’m not going to interfere unless you irritate me. Tell me about the shop across the street. Spirit Quest.”
He snorted, visibly relaxed. She wasn’t after him. Feeling cooperative, he refilled Peabody’s cup, then picked up a rag and wiped the counter. He ran a clean place. “The witch? She don’t come in here. Don’t drink coffee, if you know what I mean.”
“She’s closed today.”
“Yeah?” He narrowed his eyes to try to see through the window, through the rain. “Not usually.”
“When did you see her last?”
“Shit.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Let’s see. Seems I saw her yesterday. Closing time? Yeah, yeah, she closes about six, and I was washing the front windows. You gotta keep on the windows in this city. Dirt just jumps right on them.”
“I bet. She closed about six. Then what?”
“Went off with that guy she lives with. Walking. They don’t got transpo.”
“You haven’t seen her today?”
“Now that you mention it, guess not. She lives up above, you know. Me, I live across town. Keep business and personal life separate, that’s my motto.”
“Any of her people ever come over here?”
“Nah. Some of her customers, sure. And some of mine go over there looking for lucky charms. We bump along okay. She ain’t no problem for me. Even bought the wife a birthday present over there. Pretty little bracelet, colored stones. Kinda stiff in the price, but women like that glitter shit.”
He tossed the rag aside and ignored the request for coffee from down the counter. “Look, she in trouble? She’s okay in my book. Weird maybe, but ain’t no harm in her.”
“What do you know about the girl who used to work there? Young girl, about eighteen. Blonde.”
“The spooky one? Sure, I used to see her come and go. Always looking over her shoulder that one, like somebody was going to jump out and say boo.”
Someone did, Eve thought. “Thanks. If you see Isis come back today, give me a call.” She slipped a card onto the counter along with credits for the coffee.
“No problem. Wouldn’t like to see her get in trouble, though. She’s okay for a whacko. Hey.” He lifted a finger as Eve started to turn. “Speaking of whackos, I saw one a couple of nights ago when I was closing up.”
“What sort of whacko?”
“Just a guy. Well, might have been a woman. Couldn’t tell ’cause they was all wrapped up in this black robe, hood and everything. Just standing there on the curb, staring across the street at her place. Just standing and staring. Gave me the creeps. I walked the other way. Twice as far to the bus stop, but I didn’t like the feel of it. And you know what? I looked back, and there wasn’t no one there. Nothing but a damn cat. Whacko, huh?”
“Yeah,” Eve murmured. “Whacko.”
“I saw a cat,” Peabody began when they headed back to the car, “on the street when Alice was killed.”
“There are lots of cats in the city.”
But Eve remembered the one on the ramp. Sleek and black and mean. “We’ll follow up with Isis later. I want to check with the ME before I feed the statement to the media.” She uncoded the car as Peabody sneezed again. “Maybe he’ll have something for that cold.”
Peabody rubbed her hand under her nose. “I’d just as soon stop by a pharmacy, if you don’t mind. I don’t want Dr. Death treating me until absolutely necessary.”
After she was back in her office and Peabody was off changing into a dry uniform and dosing herself with a small fortune of over-the-counters, Eve studied the autopsy report on Lobar.
She’d had the time of death right in the prelim, and the cause. Then again, she mused, it was tough to miss a mile-wide gash in the throat and a crater in the chest. And, fancy that, there had been traces of a hallucinogen, a stimulant, and a mind hazer—all of the illegals variety—in his bloodstream.
So he’d died sexually fulfilled and zoned. Some, she imagined, would say that wasn’t such a bad deal. But then, most of them hadn’t had a knife raked over their throats.
She lifted the sealed weapon, studied it. No prints, of course, and none expected. No blood on it but for the victim’s. She studied the carved black handle, scanning the symbols and letters that meant nothing to her. It appeared to be old and rare, but she doubted that would help her pin ownership. The blade was under legal limit, required no registration.
Still, she would check antique shops, knife shops, and, she supposed, witch shops. That would only take weeks, she thought in disgust, and was unlikely to lead anywhere.
Since she had twenty minutes before she had to face the media, she turned to her machine and got started. She’d no more than plugged in the description of the weapon when Feeney walked in, shut her door.
“Heard you had a rude awakening this morning.”
“Yeah.” Her stomach clutched, not in memory of what had come into her home, but at knowing she would have to weigh every word with him. “Not the kind of package I like to receive.”
“You need help on it?” He smiled wanly. “I’m looking for busywork.”
“I’ve got it covered for now, but I’ll let you know.”
He paced to her narrow window, back to her door. He looked exhausted, she thought. So tired. So sad.
“What’s the story? Did you know the guy?”
“Not really.” Oh, Christ, what did she do here? “I’d talked to him once about a case I was on. Didn’t pan out. Could be he knew more than he was telling me. It’s going to be hard to say now.” She took a deep breath, hating herself. “I figure it was someone who wanted to take a swipe at me or Roarke. Most cops can keep their home addresses quiet. I can’t.” She shrugged.
“Price you pay for falling for a public figure. You happy?” he said abruptly and turned to study her face.
“Sure.” She wondered if guilt was plastered on her forehead like a neon sign.
“Good. Good.” He paced again, jiggling the bag of nuts he habitually carried in his pocket and no longer seemed to have the appetite for. “It’s tough to be on the job and make a decent personal life. Frank did.”
“I know.”
“Alice’s viewing is tonight. You going to make it?”
“I don’t know, Feeney. I’ll try.”
“It rips me, Dallas. It really rips me. My wif
e’s with Brenda now. She’s wrecked. Just wrecked. I couldn’t handle it anymore so I came in. But I can’t focus.”
“Why don’t you go back home, Feeney?” She rose, reached out to touch his arm. “Just go home. Maybe you and your wife could go away for a few days. You’ve got the time coming. Get away from this.”
“Maybe.” His eyes were bleak, heavy with bags. “But where do you go to get away from what’s always there?”
“Listen, Roarke’s got this place in Mexico. It’s great.” She was fumbling and knew it, desperate to give. “It’s got a monster view, and it’s fully equipped. It would be.” She managed a smile. “It’s Roarke’s. I’ll square it with him. You can go there, take your family.”
“Take the family.” He repeated it slowly, finding the idea was almost soothing. “Maybe I will. You never seem to make time to be with your family. I’ll think about it,” he decided. “Thanks.”
“It’s nothing. It’s Roarke. It’s just there.” She turned blindly toward her desk. “I’m sorry, Feeney, I’ve got to get it together for a media statement.”
“Sure.” He worked up a smile for her. “I know how much you love that. I’ll let you know about using the place.”
“Yeah, do that.” She stared hard at her screen until he went out. She’d followed orders, she reminded herself. She’d done the right thing.
So why did it make her feel like a traitor?
chapter eleven
She made the tail end of the viewing, grateful that Roarke had come with her. It was too familiar, the same memorial parlor, the same scents, many of the same people.
“I hate this,” she murmured. “Sanitized death.”
“It comforts.”
Eve looked over to where Brenda was supported by her mother and her son while tears ran slowly down her cheeks. She had the glazed and delicate look of the heavily medicated.
“Does it?”
“It closes,” he corrected and took her cold hand in his. “For some.”
“When it’s my turn, don’t do this. Recycle the parts, burn the rest. Get it done.”