by J. D. Robb
“It was just sex.” That’s what Wineburg had said, had sobbed, Eve remembered, before he died.
“Your young woman, Eve, was likely drawn in first by the intellect. Satanism is centuries old, and like most pagan religions, predates Christianity. Why does it survive, and in some eras even prosper? It’s filled with secrets and sins and sex, its rites are mysterious and elaborate. She would have wondered, and coming from a close and likely sheltered homelife, was at an age ripe for rebellions against the status quo.”
“The ceremony you described was similar to one she described to me. But she had only begun to observe and she was sexually used. She was a virgin, and was, I suspect drugged.”
“I see. There are always sects that diverge from the established rules of law. Some can be dangerous.”
“She had blanks, time losses, and became almost slavishly devoted to two of the members. She backed away from her family and her studies. Until she witnessed the ritual murder of a child.”
“Human sacrifice is an old practice, and a deplorable one.” Mira sipped delicately. “If drugs were involved, it’s highly possible she was made an addict, dependent upon these people. That would explain the blanks. I take it the murder she witnessed shocked her away from the cult and its rituals.”
“She was terrified. She didn’t go to her family, didn’t report the incident. She ran to a witch.”
“A white witch? A Wiccan?”
Eve compressed her lips. “She did what I expect would be considered a religious one eighty. Started burning white candles instead of black. And she lived in terror, claimed that one of the membership could turn into a raven.”
“Shape-shifting.” Thoughtfully, Mira rose to program more tea. “Interesting.”
“She believed they would kill her, had killed someone close to her, though that death is for now officially listed under natural causes. I have no doubt they tormented her, found a way to play on her delusions and fears. I’m thinking some of that came from her own sense of guilt and shame.”
“You could be right. Emotions influence the intellect.”
“Just how much?” Eve demanded. “Enough for her to see things that weren’t there? Enough for her to run from an illusion into the path of an oncoming car and kill herself?”
Mira sat again. “She’s dead then. I’m sorry. Are you quite sure she ran from an illusion?”
“A trained observer was on the scene. There was nothing there. Except,” Eve added with a twist of her lips, “a black cat.”
“The traditional familiar. That alone might have been enough to push her over the edge. Even if the cat was planted in order to frighten her, you would have a difficult time terming it homicide.”
“They played on her mind, drugged her, possibly used hypnosis. They tormented her with tricks and ’link transmissions. Then they pushed her over. Damned if that isn’t murder. And I will make it stick.”
“Taking religion, particularly religions the masses don’t wish to acknowledge, into court won’t be easy.”
“I don’t care about easy. The people behind this cult are dirty. And I believe they have killed four people in the last two weeks.”
“Four.” Mira paused, set the cup down. “The body that was left near your home. The details in the media were sketchy. It’s connected?”
“Yeah. He was an initiate, and he had his throat slit by an athame. It was left in him, stuck in his groin with a note that condemned Satanism. He was strapped to an inverted pentagram.”
“Mutilation and murder.” Mira pursed her lips. “If it was Wiccans, it’s very much out of character. Very much against their creed.”
“People do things out of character and against their creeds all the time,” Eve said impatiently. “But at this time, I suspect a member or members of his own cult. Another man was killed last night with an athame. We held it from the morning reports, but it’ll be all over the media within a couple of hours. I was on scene, chasing him down. I didn’t run fast enough.”
“He was killed quickly, without ritual? With a police officer in pursuit?” Mira shook her head. “A desperate or arrogant move. If this was committed by the same people, it shows a growing boldness.”
“And maybe a taste for it. Blood becomes addictive. I want to know where the weaknesses are in the kind of personality who runs a cult like this. I’ve got a female, long yellow sheet involving illegal sex and drug trafficking. Bisexual. She heads up the club, lives well. Her companion is a well-built male who caters to her. She likes to show off,” Eve added, remembering the fire trick. “She claims to be clairvoyant. She’s edgy, with a slippery temper.”
“Pride would likely be the first weakness. If she’s in a position of power and authority, she would likely take disrespect badly. Is she clairvoyant?”
“Are you serious?”
“Eve.” Mira sighed lightly. “Psychic abilities exist, and always have. Studies have established that.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Eve waved a hand in dismissal. “The Kijinsky Institute, for one. I’ve got a detailed report on the white witch from there. They claim she’s off the charts.”
“And you don’t agree with the Kijinsky Institute?”
“Crystal balls and palm reading? You’re a scientist.”
“Yes, I am, and as such, I accept that science is fluid. It changes as we learn more about the universe and what inhabits it. Many well-respected scientists believe that we’re born with what we can term this sixth sense, or a heightened sense, if you will. Some develop it, some block it. Most of us retain at least some level. We’d call it instinct, hunches, intuition. You rely on that yourself.”
“I rely on evidence, on facts.”
“You have hunches, Eve. And your intuition is a finely crafted tool. And Roarke.” She smiled when Eve’s brows drew together. “A man doesn’t rise so high so young without a strong instinct for making the right move at the right time. Magic, if you want to use a more romantic term, exists.”
“You’re telling me you believe in mind reading and spell casting?”
“I can intuit what’s going through your mind right now.” Mira chuckled, finished her tea. “Mira, you’re thinking, is full of shit.”
Eve’s lips curved in a reluctant smile of her own. “Close enough.”
“Let me say this, since I believe it’s part of what you came here for. Witchcraft, black and white, has existed since the dawn of humanity. And where there is power, there is benefit, and there is abuse. That, too, is the nature of humanity. We can’t, through all our scientific and technical skill, destroy one without damaging the other. Power requires tending, as do beliefs, so we have our ceremonies and our rituals. We need the structure, the comfort, and yes, the mystery of them.”
“I don’t have any problem with ceremonies and rituals, Dr. Mira. Unless they cross the line of the law.”
“I would agree. But the law can also be fluid. It changes, adapts.”
“Murder stays murder. Whether it’s accomplished with a stone spear or a laser blast.” Her eyes were dark and fierce. “Or whether it’s done with smoke and mirrors. I’ll find the perpetrator, and no magic in the world is going to stop me.”
“No.” A small, niggling fear—what might have been called a hunch—knotted in Mira’s gut. “I would agree with that as well. You’re not without power, Eve, and you’ll match yours against this.” She folded her hands. “I can provide you with a more detailed analysis on both Satanism and Wicca, if it might help.”
“I like to know what I’m dealing with. I’d appreciate it. Can you give me a profile of a typical member of both cults?”
“There isn’t a typical member, any more than there are typical members of the Catholic faith or of Buddhism, but I can generalize certain personality types who are often attracted to the occult. The Wiccan the young woman went to, is she a suspect?”
“She’s not the prime, but she’s a suspect. Revenge is a strong motive, and if Satanists keep ending up with a ritual knife in vi
tal organs, I won’t overlook revenge.” Unable to resist, Eve ran her tongue over her teeth. “But I suppose she’d be more likely to put a curse on them.”
“Check the nails and hair of your victims, or of any subsequent ones. If a curse is involved, there should be signs of recent snippings.”
“Yeah? I’ll do that.” Eve rose. “I appreciate the help.”
“I’ll get you a report by tomorrow.”
“Great.” She started out, paused. “You seem to know a lot about all of this. Is it the kind of thing you study for psychiatry?”
“To some extent, but I have a more personal interest and studied fairly extensively.” Her lips curved. “My daughter is Wiccan.”
Eve’s jaw dropped. “Oh.” What the hell did she say now? “Well. I guess that explains it.” Uncomfortable, she dug her hands into her pockets. “Around here?”
“No, she lives in New Orleans. She finds it less restrictive there. I may be a bit unobjective on the matter, Eve, under the circumstances, but I think you’ll find it’s a lovely faith, very earthy and generous.”
“Sure.” Eve edged for the door. “I’m going to observe a meeting tomorrow night.”
“You’ll have to let me know what you think. And if you have questions I’m unable to answer, I’m sure my daughter would be happy to speak with you.”
“I’ll let you know.” She headed to the elevator, blowing out a long breath. Mira’s daughter was a witch, for Christ’s sake, she thought. That was a hell of a capper.
She headed back to Central with the intention of rounding up Peabody, then heading to Wineburg’s townhouse. She wanted to get a look at his lifestyle, his logs, and his personal records. She had a feeling a drone like him would have kept some private list of names and places.
The sweepers had already been through, routinely, and had turned up nothing of particular interest. But she could get lucky.
She passed Peabody in the bullpen as she swung through. “My vehicle, fifteen minutes. I want to check my messages, make a couple of calls.”
“Yes, sir. Lieutenant—”
“Later,” Eve said shortly, hurrying by and missing Peabody’s wince.
The reason for it was waiting in her office.
“Feeney?” She tugged her jacket off, tossed it on a chair. “You decide to head to Mexico? You’re going to need to call Roarke for the details. He should be—”
She broke off when Feeney stood up, walked over, and shut her door. It had only taken one look at his face to know.
“You lied to me.” There was a quaver in his voice that came as much from hurt as anger. But his eyes were flat and cold. “You fucking lied to me. I trusted you. You’ve been investigating Frank behind my back. Over his own dead body.”
There was no point in denying, less in asking how he’d found out. She’d known he would. “There was going to be an internal investigation. Whitney wanted me to clear him, and that’s what I’ve done.”
“Internal investigation my ass. Nobody was cleaner than Frank.”
“I know that, Feeney. I was—”
“But you investigated. You went through his records, and you did it around me.”
“That’s the way it had to be.”
“Bullshit. I goddamn trained you. You’d still be in uniform if I hadn’t put you here. And you back stab me.” He stepped closer, fists clenched at his sides.
She preferred him to use them.
“You’ve got Alice’s file open, suspected homicide. She was my goddaughter, and you don’t tell me you think some son of a bitch killed her? You block me out of the investigation, you lie to me. You looked right in my face and lied to me.”
Her stomach had gone to ice. “Yes.”
“You think she’d been drugged and raped and murdered, and you don’t take me in?”
He’d gotten into the records, the reports, she realized. They’d been sealed and coded, but that wouldn’t have stopped him if he’d gotten a whiff. And, she decided, he’d gotten one the night before, over Wineburg’s body.
“I couldn’t,” she said in a flat voice. “Even if I hadn’t been under orders, I couldn’t. You were too close. You can’t objectively assist on an investigation involving family.”
“What the hell do you know about family?” he exploded and made her jerk.
Yes, she’d have preferred his fists.
“Orders?” he continued, bitterness spewing out and scalding her. “Fucking orders? Is that your line, Dallas? Is that your reason for treating me like some lame rookie? ‘Take a vacation, Feeney. Use my rich husband’s fancy house in Mexico.’” His lips peeled back in a sneer. “That would have been fine for you, wouldn’t it? Get me out of your way, shuffle me off and out from underfoot because I’m useless to you on this one.”
“No. God, Feeney—”
“I’ve gone through doors with you.” His voice was abruptly quiet, and made her throat burn. “I trusted you. I’d have put my back up against yours anytime, anyplace. But no more. You’re good, Dallas, but you’re cold. The hell with you.”
She said nothing when he walked out, leaving her door swinging open. Could say nothing. He’d nailed it, she decided. And he’d nailed her.
“Dallas.” Peabody rushed the door. “I couldn’t—”
Eve cut her off, simply lifting a finger, turning her back. Slowly, with slow even breaths, she pulled her guts back in. Even then, they ached. She could still smell him in the room. That stupid cologne his wife always bought him.
“We’re going to do a follow-up sweep of Wineburg’s townhouse. Get your gear.”
Peabody opened her mouth, closed it again. Even if she’d known what to say, she didn’t imagine it would be welcome. “Yes, sir.”
Eve turned back. Her eyes were blank, cool, composed. “Then let’s move.”
chapter thirteen
She was in a pisser of a mood by the time she got home. She’d turned Wineburg’s townhouse inside out, reworking every step already taken by the sweepers. For three hours she and Peabody had searched closets and drawers, run logs, and traced ’link records.
She found two dozen all-but-identical dark suits, shoes so glossy she’d seen her own scowl reflected in the tips, an incredibly boring collection of music discs. Though he’d had a lock box, the contents hadn’t been very illuminating. Two thousand in cash, another ten in credits, and an extensive collection of hard-core pornographic videos might have given some insight into the man, but no solid leads toward his killer.
He’d kept no personal diary, and his appointment book listed times and dates and very little about the content of any meeting, personal or professional. His financial records were ordered and precise, as one might expect from a man who dealt with money as an occupation. All expenses and income were carefully logged. Though the large and regular bimonthly withdrawals from credit into cash over the last two-year period of Wineburg’s fussy life gave Eve a solid notion just how Selina managed to live so well, the withdrawals were all logged under personal expenses.
The consistency of late-night appointments over the last two years, again bimonthly and always on the same date as the personal cash withdrawal, wasn’t enough to establish a solid connection with Selina Cross’s cult.
The lady herself was never mentioned.
He’d been divorced, childless, and he’d lived alone.
So she knocked on doors, talked to neighbors. Eve learned Wineburg hadn’t been the sociable sort. He’d rarely had visitors, and none of his neighbors had been curious enough or would admit to paying close enough attention to any of those rare visitors to give a description.
She came away with nothing but a raw feeling in the gut and a mounting sense of frustration. She knew, without a doubt, that Wineburg had been part of Cross’s cult, that he’d paid heavily, first monetarily and then with his life, for the privilege. But she was no closer to proving it, and her mind wasn’t as focused on the business at hand as it should have been.
When she headed home, alone,
Feeney’s angry face and bitter words played back in her head, and frustration slammed up hard against misery.
She’d more than let him down, she knew. She had betrayed him by doing precisely what he had helped train her to do. She’d followed orders, she’d been a cop. She’d done her job.
But she hadn’t been a friend, she thought, as her temples throbbed with stress. She’d weighed her loyalties, and in the end had chosen the job over the heart.
Cold, he’d called her, she remembered and squeezed her eyes shut. And cold she had been.
The cat padded to her the moment Eve stepped in the door, winding around her legs as she stepped into the foyer. She kept walking, cursing lightly when he tripped her. Summerset slipped out of a doorway.
“Roarke has been trying to reach you.”
“Yeah? Well, I’ve been busy.” She nudged Galahad away impatiently with her foot. “Is he here?”
“Not as yet. You might reach him at his office.”
“I’ll talk to him when he gets home.” She wanted a drink, something strong and mind-misting. Recognizing the danger and the weakness of that crutch, she turned away from the parlor and walked in the opposite direction. “I’m not here to anybody else. Get it?”
“Certainly,” Summerset said stiffly.
As she strode away, Summerset bent and picked up the cat to stroke—something he never would have done had anyone been around to observe. “The lieutenant is very unhappy,” Summerset murmured. “Perhaps we should make a call.”
Galahad purred, stretched his neck in appreciation of Summerset’s long, bony fingers. Their mutual affection was their little secret.
It would have surprised Eve, though she wasn’t thinking of either of them. She took the stairs, moved through the indoor pool and garden area, and into the gym. Physical exertion, she knew, blocked emotional distress.
Keeping her mind blank, she changed into a black skin suit and high tops. She programmed the full body unit, ordering the machine to take her through a brutal series of reps and resistance exercises, gritting her teeth as the clipped computer voice demanded that she squat, lift, stretch, hold, repeat.