by J. D. Robb
“That was kept locked. Privacy Act. The family was already out of it. The mother had divorced and relocated a few years before Baines was caught. The kid was sixteen when she took him and left. Twenty-one when his father was tried and convicted. My sources claim the son attended court every day.”
Eve thought of the small, unassuming man she’d met at Alice’s viewing. Son of a monster. How much of that came through the blood? She thought of her own father, nearly shuddered. “I appreciate it. If it comes to anything, I’ll owe you.”
“Yeah, you will. I’ve got lots of data on cults in the city. Nothing as dramatic as this, but it may lead somewhere. Meanwhile, if you were in Interview with someone pissed off enough to try to slice your jugular, should I assume you have a suspect?”
Eve studied her nails. She supposed some would have said she was overdo for a manicure. “I can’t comment on that. You know, Nadine, cameras aren’t allowed down in Booking.”
“Damn shame. Thanks for the spot, Dallas. I’ll be in touch.”
“Do that.” Eve watched her stroll out, had no doubt Nadine was making tracks to Booking. And that Selina Cross was going to have her name broadcast by the end of the noon report.
All in all, she decided, not a bad morning.
Wincing, she dragged through her drawers hoping for a first aid kit.
chapter fifteen
“I won’t make it home.” Eve juggled the call to Roarke while her computer searched for all data on David Baines Conroy. “Can you swing by here about six? We can drive upstate for the witch party.”
Roarke lifted an elegant brow. “As long as it’s not in your vehicle.” He frowned, gestured. “Come a little closer to the screen. What now?” he asked.
“What do you mean, ‘What now’? I’m busy.”
“No, your neck.”
“Oh, that.” She touched her fingers to the still-raw scratches. She’d never found that first aid kit. “A difference of opinion. I won.”
“Naturally. Put something on it, Lieutenant. I should be able to make it there by six thirty. We can eat on the way.”
“Fine.” Eat on the way? “Wait a minute. Don’t bring the limo.”
He only smiled. “Six thirty.”
“I mean it, Roarke, don’t—” She hissed when the screen blanked. “Damn.” With a sigh, she swiveled back to the computer.
The IRCCA was a fount of data on this one, she thought. she skimmed through, pausing over pertinent facts on David Baines Conroy.
Divorced, one child, male, Charles, born January 22, 2025, custody awarded to mother, Ellen Forte.
Big surprise, Eve thought. Mass murderers weren’t generally given custody of minor children. “Let’s get down to it,” she murmured. “Charges and convictions.”
Charged and convicted, Murder in the first, torture killing, posthumous rape, and dismemberment of Doreen Harden, mixed race female, age 23. Sentenced to life, maximum facility, no parole option.
Charged and convicted, Murder in the first, rape, torture killing, and dismemberment of Emma Tangent, black female, age 25. Sentenced to life, maximum facility, no parole option.
Charged and convicted, Murder in the first, sodomy, rape, torture killing, and dismemberment of Lowell McBride, white male, age 18. Sentenced to life, maximum facility, no parole option.
Charged and convicted, Murder in the first, rape, torture killing, and dismemberment of Darla Fitz, mixed race female, age 23. Sentenced to life, maximum facility, no parole options.
Charged and convicted, Murder in the first, sodomy, posthumous rape, torture killing, and dismemberment of Martin Savoy, mixed race male, age 20. Sentenced to life, maximum facility, no parole options.
Currently serving term on Penal Station Omega.
Suspected of twelve additional murders, cases open. Insufficient evidence to charge. Primary investigators available on request.
“List primaries,” Eve ordered and watched as names and data scrolled. “Moved around, did you, Conroy?” she muttered, noting that the detectives in charge were scattered all over the country.
She’d still been a teenager when Conroy had dominated the news. She remembered snatches, weeping family members begging Conroy to tell them where to find the remains of loved ones, grim-faced cops giving statements, and Conroy himself, a quiet face slashed with vicious, dark eyes.
They’d called him evil, she remembered. The Antichrist. That was the term used over and over again to describe him, to try, perhaps, to separate him from the human.
But he’d been human enough to conceive a child. A son. And that son was on her current list of suspects. Maybe, just maybe, she’d been focused too relentlessly on Selina Cross.
The son was drawn to power, she mused. Witchcraft was about power, wasn’t it? He’d known at least one of the victims. And two had been killed with a knife. Conroy had been very handy with a knife.
He’d also claimed to have been the instrument of a god, she recalled, scanning data. Yes, there, there in one of his rambling statements. She highlighted. “Give me audio on this.”
Working…
“I am a force beyond you,” Conroy’s voice crooned out, beautiful diction, almost musical. The son’s voice, Eve thought, was equally charismatic. “I am the instrument of the god of vengeance and pain. What I do in his name is grand. Tremble before me for I will never be vanquished. I am legion.”
“You are garbage,” Eve corrected. Legion. Cross had used the same term. Interesting…Had Conroy dabbled in Satanism, she wondered, in witchcraft? And had the son been attracted to the same areas?
Just how much, she wondered, did Charles Forte know about his father’s work? And how did he feel about it?
“Computer, run Charles Forte of this city, formerly Charles Conroy, son of David Baines Conroy, all data.
Working…
As the information beeped on, she tapped her fingers on the desk and considered. The mother had taken her son to New York, which meant, Eve mused, that the boy had traveled back to attend the trial. He’d made the effort, likely over his mother’s objections. Dropped out of college, second term. Studied pharmaceuticals. Very interesting. Licensed as a chemical drone, worked on drug cloning and manufacture. Moved around quite a bit, she noted. Like his dear old dad. Then settled back in New York, co-owner of Spirit Quest.
She leaned back, unconsciously rubbing her wounded throat. No marriages, no children, no arrests. She played a hunch.
“Medical data.”
Charles Forte, age six, broken hand. Age six, minor concussion, abdominal bruising. Age seven, second-degree burns, forearms. Age seven, concussion and fractured tibia.
The list went on through childhood in a pattern that made Eve’s stomach clench. “Hold. Probability of child abuse?”
Probability ninety-eight percent.
“Why the hell wasn’t it picked up?”
Medical records indicate treatment was issued at varying hospitals in varying cities over course of ten years. No record of requested search through National Child Abuse Prevention Agency.
“Idiots. Idiots.” She rubbed her hands over her face, pressing hard on the headache now brewing in the center of her forehead. It was too close to home.
“List any psychiatric treatment or available psychological profiles.”
Subject entered Miller Clinic voluntarily as outpatient. Doctor of record, Ernest Renfrew from February 2045 to September 2047. Files sealed. No other data.
“Okay, that’s enough to chew on. Save data, file Forte, Charles, case number 34299-H. Cross-reference, Conroy. Disengage when complete.”
She glanced up as Feeney stuck his head in her doorway. “Cross just got sprung.”
“Well, it was too good to last.”
“You have anybody look at those cat scratches?”
“I will. Got a minute?”
“Sure.”
“David Baines Conroy.”
Feeney whistled, made himself comfortable on the corner of her desk. “That’s going back. Sick bast
ard. Cut his victims up when he was done with them. Kept the parts in a portable cold box. Had a trailer, traveled around. Preaching.”
“Preaching?”
“Well, that’s not exactly the term. Set himself up as a sort of Antichrist. Lots of shit about anarchy, freedom to pursue carnal pleasures, opening the gates of Hell. That sort of thing. Figures he plucked most of his victims off the road. Itinerant LCs. At least three they pinned him on were licensed companions. Hookers have always been easy marks for psychos.”
“He was found competent to stand trial.”
“Passed the tests. Legally, he was sane. In reality, a real whacko.”
“He had a family.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s right.” Feeney closed his eyes to try to bring it back. “I was still working Homicide then, and there wasn’t a cop on planet who wasn’t personally caught up by the case. Never did any of his work here, that we know of, but I remember he had a wife. Pale, jumpy little woman. Left him—before he got snagged seems to me. And there was a kid, a boy. Spooky.”
“Why?”
“He had his old man’s eyes. Except they were dead, you know? I remember thinking we might be tracking him one day. In his father’s footsteps. Then they ducked under the Privacy Act, and nobody ever heard of them again.”
“Until now.” Eve kept her eyes level. “I’m seeing Conroy’s son tonight. At a witch’s coven.”
Roarke brought the limo. She’d been certain he would, just to annoy her. She’d have stayed annoyed if he hadn’t seen that the AutoChef was stocked, Italian style.
Eve was wolfing down manicotti before they crossed the Jacqueline Onassis Bridge. But she shook her head at the burgundy he poured.
“I’m on duty,” she said with her mouth full.
“I’m not.” He sipped, studied her. “Why haven’t you taken care of that?” he asked, brushing gentle fingers over her throat.
“I got tied up.”
“Now, that’s something we’ve yet to explore.” He smiled genially when she goggled at him. “Just a thought. I caught the replay of your little tête-à-tête with Nadine on the way over to Central. I’m surprised you agreed to it.”
“It was a trade. I got my share.” She leaned forward, engaged the privacy shield between them and the driver. “And I’d better fill you in before we join in tonight’s festivities.”
She detailed the new line she was pursuing, then sampled one of the sweet, fat olives on the antipasto tray. “It bumps him up a few notches on the list,” she concluded.
“The sins of the father?”
“Sometimes it works that way.”
He said nothing a moment. They both had reason to be uncomfortable with the theory. “You know best, Lieutenant, but isn’t it just as likely circumstances would push him to the opposite pole?”
“He knew Alice, he has knowledge of chemicals. Her grandfather had chemicals in his system, and she’d been hallucinating. The other two victims were ritual slayings. Forte belongs to a cult. I can’t ignore the steps.”
“He looked remarkably unhomicidal to me.”
She poked through the antipasto, selected a marinated pepper. “I once took down this little old lady, looked like everybody’s favorite granny. She took in stray cats and baked cookies for the neighborhood kids. Grew geraniums on her windowsill.” Enjoying the bite, Eve chose another pepper. “She’d lured a half a dozen kids into her apartment, and had fed their internal organs to the kitties before we nailed her.”
“Charming story.” Roarke slipped his plate into the holding slot. “Point taken.” Reaching into his pocket, he took out the amulet Isis had given him the night before, slipped it over Eve’s neck.
“What’s this for?”
“It looks better on you than me.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Bull. You’re being superstitious.”
“No, I’m not,” he lied and set her plate in with his before he shifted and began to unbutton her shirt.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
“Passing the time.” His hands, clever and quick, swooped down to take her breasts. “It’ll take an hour to get there by car.”
“I’m not having sex in the back of a limo,” she told him. “It’s—”
“Delicious,” he finished and replaced his hands with his mouth.
She felt remarkably limber and relaxed by the time the limo turned onto a narrow country road. Here the trees were plentiful, the stars brilliant, and the dark complete. Half-denuded trees arched over the roadway, tunneling them in. She caught the glinting gold eyes of what might have been a fox as a shadow darted across the road and into the woods.
“Feeney and Peabody still behind us?”
“Hmm.” Roarke tucked his shirt back into his trousers. “It would seem so. “You’re putting that on inside out,” he said mildly and grinned.
“Hell.” Eve struggled back out of the shirt, pulled the arms through, and tried again. “Don’t look so smug, I just pretended to enjoy that.”
“Darling Eve.” He took her hand, kissed it. “You’re too good to me.”
“You’re telling me.” She slipped the amulet off, looped it over his head. “You wear it.” Before he could object, she caught his face in her hands. “Please.”
“You don’t believe in it, anyway.”
“No.” She tucked it under his shirt, patted it. “But I think you do. Your driver knows where he’s going?”
“The directions from Isis are programmed in.” He checked his watch. “By my calculations, we should be nearly there.”
“Looks like we’re nowhere if you ask me.” She stared out the window. Nothing but dark, trees, and more dark. “I’d rather be on my own turf. Hard to believe there’s this much nothing less than two hours’ drive from New York.”
“You’re such an urbanite.”
“And you’re not?”
He moved his shoulders. “The country’s an interesting place to visit for short periods of time. Quiet can be restful.”
“It makes me edgy.” They turned onto another winding road. “And everything looks the same. There’s no…action,” she decided. “Now, you stroll into Central or Green-peace Park and you’re bound to run into a mugger or chemi head at least. Maybe an unlicensed hooker, couple of perverts.”
She glanced back, saw he was grinning at her. “Well?”
“Life with you has such…color.”
She snorted, strapped on her side arm. “Yeah, like everything was gray in your little world before I came along. All that wine, women, and money. Must have been pretty tedious.”
“The ennui,” he said on a sigh, “was unspeakable. I might have faded away from it if you hadn’t tried to hang a murder or two on me.”
“Just your lucky day.” She caught the glimmer of lights through the trees as the car turned up a steep, rutted incline. “Thank Christ. Looks like the party’s already under way.”
“Try not to sneer.” Roarke patted her knee. “It would offend our hosts.”
“I’m not going to sneer.” She already was. “I want impressions. Not just of Forte, of everybody. And if you happen to recognize a face, let me know.” She took a small device out of her bag, slipped it into her pocket.
“Micro recorder?” Roarke clucked his tongue. “I believe that’s illegal. Not to mention rude.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“And unnecessary,” he added. He turned his wrist, tapped a tiny button on the side of his watch. “This one is much more efficient. I should know. I manufacture both brands.” He smiled as the car stopped at the edge of a small clearing. “I believe we’ve arrived.”
Eve spotted Isis first. She was impossible to miss. The sheer, white robe she wore seemed to glow out of the dark like moonlight. Her hair was left long and loose, flowing over her shoulders. A gold band studded with colored stones circled her brow. Her long, narrow feet were bare.
“Blessed be,” she said and disconcerted Eve by kissing bot
h her cheeks. She greeted Roarke the same way, then turned back to Eve. “You’re injured.” Before Eve could respond, she lay fingers against the scratches. “Poison.”
“Poison?” Eve had visions of vicious nails dipped into a slow-acting brew that crept through the bloodstream.
“Not of the physical but of the spiritual kind. I feel Selina here.” Her eyes stayed on Eve’s as she lowered her hand to Eve’s shoulder. “This won’t do. Mirium, please welcome our other guests.” She spoke to a small, dark-skinned woman as Feeney’s rattletrap of a car bumped up the road. “Chas will see to your wound.”
“It’s fine. I’ll see an MT in the morning.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary. Please come this way. It’s unhealthy to have even this much of her here.”
She led the way around the clearing. Eve could see a wide circle formed by a ring of white candles. People stood outside it chatting, she mused, as they might at a midtown cocktail party. Dress varied. Robes, suits, long and short skirts.
Twenty in all, by her count, ranging in age from eighteen to eighty with a mixture of race and gender. There seemed no specific type. Coolers were stacked nearby, which, she supposed, explained why several members were sipping drinks. Conversation was muted, punctuated by the occasional laugh.
Chas turned from a folding table as they approached. He wore a simple blue unisuit and soft shoes in the same tone. He smiled, noting Eve’s suspicious scan of the table.
“Witch’s tools,” he told her.
Red cords, a white-handled knife. An athame, she thought. She saw more candles, a small brass gong, a whip, a gleaming silver sword, colored bottles, bowls, and cups.
“Interesting.”
“It’s an old ritual, requiring old tools. But you’re hurt.” He took a step toward her, his hand lifting, then pausing when she aimed a cool, warning look. “I beg your pardon. It looks painful.”
“Chas is a healer.” Isis curved her lips in challenge. “Consider this a demonstration. After all, you did come to observe, didn’t you? And your mate wears protection.”