Vendetta in Death

by Robb, J. D.

  “Oh, believe me, you will. For your wife.” She slapped the prod over his belly. “For your daughters.” His chest. “For every woman you’ve raped.” His buttocks.

  His screams bounced off the walls. “No, no, no. I haven’t raped anyone. You’ve made a terrible mistake.”

  “Have I? Have I, Nigel?” She gave him a little lick of shock across the balls, and imagined only dogs could have heard the high pitch of his scream from that one.

  Each time she said a name—one of his victims—she shocked him again.

  He gibbered, went limp, but she was patient.

  After snapping a vial under his nose to revive him, she started again.

  He begged—oh, how he begged—he cursed her, he wept and screamed and pissed himself.

  And oh, oh, oh, those moments of pleasure.

  “Why, why are you doing this?”

  “For all the women you’ve betrayed, humiliated, abused. Confess, confess, Nigel, to your crimes.”

  “I never hurt anyone!”

  She slapped the electric rod hard over his buttocks. When he could speak again, he sobbed out the words. “I love my wife, I love my wife, but I need more. I’m sorry. It was only sex. Please, please.”

  “You drugged women.”

  “I didn’t— Yes, yes!” He shrieked it to hold off the pain. “Not always, but I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “You used your position to intimidate, to pressure women who wanted work to have sex.”

  “No— Yes—yes! I have needs. Please.”

  “Your needs?” She picked up a sap, slapped it across his face. Shattered his cheekbone. “Your needs were more important than their free will, than their wishes, their needs? Than your vows to your wife?”

  “No, no. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I—I need help. I’ll get help. I’ll confess. I’ll go to prison. I’ll do whatever you say.”

  “Say my name.”

  “I don’t know who you are. Please.”

  “I told you!” She shocked him again, knew by the way he convulsed that she was nearing the end. “I’m Lady Justice. Say my name!”

  “Lady Justice,” he mumbled, barely conscious.

  “And justice will be served.”

  She had the bucket and the blade ready, brought them over. She set the bucket between his legs.

  “What’s that for? What are you doing? I confessed. I’m sorry. Oh my God, oh God, please, no!”

  “It’s all right, Nigel.” She smiled into his watering, horrified eyes. “I’m going to take care of your needs. For the last time.”

  She kept him alive as long as she could, and when it was done, when he hung limp and silent, she let out a long sigh.

  “So. Justice is served.”

  As dawn broke over the city, Lieutenant Eve Dallas stood over the naked, mutilated body. The early breeze frisked through her choppy cap of hair, flapped at her long leather coat as she read the bold, computer-generated print on the sign tacked securely where the victim’s genitals had been.

  He broke his vows of marriage,

  and woman he disparaged.

  His life he built on wealth and power,

  to lure the helpless to his tower.

  He raped for fun,

  and now he’s done.

  LADY JUSTICE

  Eve shifted her field kit, turned to the uniformed officer, the first on scene. “What do you know?”

  The beetle-browed, mixed-race female snapped to. “The nine-one-one came in at oh-four-thirty-eight. A limo dropped off a female, one Tisha Feinstein, on the corner of West Eighty-eighth and Columbus. Feinstein states that after attending her bachelorette party with fourteen friends, she wanted to walk, catch some air. Catching said air, she walked the three blocks uptown to Ninety-first, saw the body laid out across the sidewalk here. She ran into the building—this is her residence, Lieutenant—woke her fiancé, one Clipper Vance. He came out, saw the body, called it in.

  “My partner and I responded, arrived on scene at oh-four-forty, secured the scene, called for a pair of beat droids to help with that. Officer Rigby is inside with the wits.”

  “All right, Officer, stand by.”

  After sealing up, she crouched by the body, opened her field kit. Then, pressing the victim’s thumb to her Identi-pad, she read out for the record:

  “Victim is identified as Nigel B. McEnroy, Caucasian, age forty-three, British citizen. His several listed residences include an apartment at 145 West Ninety-first, New York City. That would be the same building as Tisha Feinstein, who discovered the body.”

  Eve scanned the face. “Hardly a surprise she didn’t recognize him if she’d known him. Severe bruising and burn marks, most likely electrical, on the face, the body, ligature marks, deep, both wrists, indicate the victim was bound during torture and struggled during same.”

  She took out microgoggles, took a closer look at the cuts and bruises on the wrists. “From the angle, I’d say his arms were bound over his head, carried the weight of his body. ME to confirm. The genitals have been severed.”

  She bent close, lifted the bottom edge of the sign for a clearer angle.

  “No visible hesitation marks, looks almost surgical. Possible medical knowledge or experience?”

  She took out her gauges. “TOD oh-three-twelve. COD, possible blood loss from castration, possible cardiac incident from electric shocks. Maybe a combo.”

  She sat back on her heels. “So he was bound, tortured, killed elsewhere—need some privacy for that—placed here. Not dumped so much as arranged, basically on his own doorstep. And with this handy, poetic note.

  “Lady Justice. Somebody was really pissed at you, Nigel.”

  She took small pliers, a couple of evidence bags from her kit. As she pulled out the first tack, she heard the familiar clomp of her partner’s pink cowboy boots trotting up the sidewalk.

  Peabody badged the beat droids, moved through the barricades. She took a look at the body, said, “Harsh.”

  “It’s all that.”

  Eve remembered a time, not so long before, when Peabody would have taken that look and gone green. A couple years as a murder cop brought out the sterner stuff.

  “When I get this love note detached—there. Peabody, call the morgue team, the sweepers. Let’s get him bagged and tagged before people in this nice, quiet neighborhood start walking their dogs or taking a morning jog. Officer, help me turn him to finish the on-site.”

  She found scores of burns, many that had seeped open during the torture, on the back, the buttocks, the hamstrings, the calves.

  “Had to take some time,” she murmured. “Couldn’t do all this without taking time. And what do you suppose Lady Justice did with the cock and balls?”

  Rising, Eve turned to her partner. Peabody wore her pink coat with a thin blue scarf with—jeez!—pink flowers scattered over it. She had her dark hair in a bouncy little tail.

  “Wits inside. Hold the scene, Officer. What’s Feinstein’s apartment?”

  “Six-oh-three, sir.”

  With Peabody she started toward the entrance of a nicely rehabbed brownstone of about fifteen floors of dignity. No night man on the door, Eve noted, but good, solid security.

  She badged her way through the beat droid on the door.

  The lobby continued the dignity with navy and cream tiles for the floor, navy walls with cream trim, a discreet security desk—currently unmanned—a couple of curved padded benches, and fresh, springy-looking flowers in tall, slim vases.

  Eve called for an elevator while she filled in Peabody.

  “Wit’s coming home from a girl party, sees McEnroy on the sidewalk, runs in, gets Vance, her fiancé. He goes out, verifies, calls it in. Nine-one-one logged at four-thirty-eight, first on scene arrived in two minutes. Vic’s also a resident of this building—or has a residence here. He’s a Brit, owns, with partners, some sort of international, interplanetary headhunter firm. Married, two offspring.”

  “Wife,” Peabody said.

 
; “Yeah.” She stepped into the elevator. “We’ll see if she’s in residence after we talk to the wits.”

  “Didn’t keep his marriage vows,” Peabody said. “If she did it, she left a really big clue with that note.”

  “Yeah, well, people do the weird when they’re pissed, and Lady Justice was seriously pissed. But … unless the wife’s a moron, she’s going to have a damn good alibi.”

  Eve stepped off, started down the quiet corridor on long legs. She noted security cams. “Let’s get the security feed for the vic’s floor, for the elevators, the lobby, the exterior.”

  She rang the bell at 603, flashed her badge for the uniform—young, male, fresh of face—who answered the door. “I’ve got this, Officer Rigby. Contact the building security or supervisor. We want the feed for the cams on the victim’s floor, the elevators, the lobby, and the exterior.”

  “For what period of time, sir?”

  “Forty-eight hours if they have it. Then start the knock-on-doors.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She let him go, gave the couple huddled together on a long, shimmery green gel sofa a quick study.

  The female—late twenties—had long, curly, coppery hair. Eyes nearly the same color showed signs of weeping and shock in a face pale and scrubbed clean of the enhancements she’d surely have worn for the night out.

  She wore simple gray cotton pants, a long-sleeved shirt, and house skids as she clung to the buff, mixed-race male of about the same age.

  He cast soulful brown eyes at Eve. “I hope this won’t take long. Tish needs to sleep.”

  “I’m afraid to close my eyes. I know I’ll see …” She pressed her face into Vance’s broad shoulder.

  “I know this is difficult, Ms. Feinstein, and we’ll keep this as brief as possible. I’m Lieutenant Dallas, this is Detective Peabody. We’re Homicide.”

  “I guess I know. My friend Lydia’s brother’s a cop in Queens. I almost called him. We sort of dated when we were in high school, but …”

  “Why don’t you just tell us what happened? Start with where you were tonight.”

  “We were all over,” Feinstein began.

  “I’m sorry,” Vance interrupted. “Please sit down. Do you want coffee or anything?”

  “That’d be great.” And would give him something to do, Eve thought. “Black for me, coffee regular for my partner.”

  “How about some more tea, cutes?”

  Feinstein smiled. “Thanks, Clip. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Never have to find out. Just take me a minute.”

  He rose, moved quietly from the room. Feinstein curled up defensively.

  “So, your evening?”

  “We were all over. It was my stag party. We’re getting married next Friday. The limo picked me up about nine. There were fourteen of us, and we club hopped, you know? Clip’s deal is tomorrow night. So anyway, we finished up with the all-male revue at Spinner’s downtown. I know it sounds like—”

  “A fun time with girlfriends,” Peabody finished with a smile.

  “It was.” Feinstein’s eyes filled. “It really was. Some of us have been friends since forever, and I’m the first of our group to get married. So we did it big, and we drank a lot and laughed a lot, and the limo started dropping us off. I was the last one, and I had him drop me on the corner. I just wanted some air, to walk a little. I felt so happy, so silly, so good. I didn’t want it to end. Then …”

  She broke off when Vance came back with mugs on a tray.

  “Clip.”

  “It’s okay, come on now, cutes. It’s okay.”

  He set the tray down, put an arm around her. Eve took the mug of black coffee from the tray. From the smell, she knew she’d had worse. She’d had better, God knows, but she’d had worse.

  “If I’d just had Shelly—that was the driver—drop me out front, she’d have seen it first. It’s terrible, but I wish she had. He was just lying there. For a second I thought it was just some awful joke, but then I saw …I think I screamed. I don’t know for sure, but I ran, and I could hardly use my swipe and code to get in I was shaking so bad, and I came right up to Clip.”

  “I thought there’d been an accident. She could hardly tell me. Then I thought, well, she’s pretty lit, she imagined it, but she was so upset.” He kept that protective arm around her as he spoke, his fingers stroking up and down her arm. “I threw on some clothes, went out. And I saw she didn’t imagine it. I called nine-one-one, and the police came.”

  “Did you recognize the victim?”

  “No.” Vance looked at Feinstein, who shook her head.

  “I didn’t really look,” Feinstein added. “I know he was right under the streetlight, but I didn’t really look at his face. He was all, I don’t know, burned. I saw the sign, the note, and that right below it, he’d—”

  “So did I,” Vance added when she broke off. “Someone castrated him.”

  “Could I ask how long you’ve lived in this building?”

  “Two and a half months.” Feinstein managed a ghost of a smile as she took Vance’s hand. “We wanted to have our own place before the wedding. Our first place together.”

  2

  “Vic’s top floor,” Eve told Peabody as they walked back to the elevator. “Unlikely those two knew him or his wife. A couple of months in the building, eight floors away, twenty-odd years younger.”

  “And this is only one of the vic’s residences,” Peabody added. “So he’s not always here.”

  “He was here long enough to get dead. Let’s see if his family’s in the building.”

  They rode up.

  “The killer’s female, or wants us to think so,” Peabody said. “If the message left has validity, possibly someone he cheated with or raped. But …he was a trim guy, but you’d still need muscle to get him in and out of a vehicle—had to have one—and spread him out on the sidewalk. Maybe she—if it’s a she—had a partner.”

  “Definitely possible. The angle of the ligature marks on the wrists indicates he was restrained with his hands and arms held over his head—taking at least some of his weight. You could haul him up that way with muscle or with a pulley. Lower him onto some sort of dolly, wheel him up a ramp into a vehicle, wheel him out. It’s a lot, but somebody gave all of it some thought. They sure as hell knew where he lived in New York, when he’d be here. And I didn’t find any defensive wounds.”

  The top floor held more generous units, for a total of six. The McEnroy apartment had the northeast corner with a wide, double-door entrance.

  A cam, palm plate, swipe, solid locks.

  Eve pushed the buzzer.

  The McEnroys are currently not receiving visitors. Please leave your name, your reason for this visit, and your contact information. Thank you.

  Eve held up her badge. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, Peabody, Detective Delia, on police business. We need to speak with anyone now in residence.”

  One moment while your identification is verified.

  Eve waited out the scan, held another minute before she heard the locks disengage.

  A house droid opened the left-side door. He stood—like the building—dignified in a dark suit. The sturdy body style told Eve he could likely double as a bodyguard. He spoke in a, well, dignified Brit accent while he looked over Eve and Peabody with eerily steady blue eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, Detective, but Mr. McEnroy has not yet returned from an engagement. Ms. McEnroy and the children are out of town on holiday and not expected back for five more days. Is there anything I can help you with at this time?”

  “Yeah, you can give us Ms. McEnroy’s location and her contact information.”

  “Again, I apologize, but that information is private.”

  “Not anymore. Mr. McEnroy won’t be returning from his engagement, as he’s on his way to the morgue.”

  She watched those steady eyes flicker. Processing the unexpected.

  “This is very unfortunate.”

  �
�You could say. We’re coming in.”

  “Yes, please do.”

  He stepped back, closed the door behind them.

  The wide foyer opened into a generous living space. She could see hints of the Hudson through the tall windows, showing silver in the morning light.

  The living area boasted a recessed viewing screen above a long, slim fireplace, upscale furniture in quiet tones of blues and greens, some framed cityscapes, a scatter of fancily framed family photos, and no clutter whatsoever.

  “What time did Mr. McEnroy leave the premises?”

  “At nine-eighteen last evening.”

  “Where was he going?”

  “I don’t have that information.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  Again she saw the flicker as the droid searched memory banks.

  “Black Vincenti trousers, a Box Club light blue sweater, silk and cashmere blend, a black leather Leonardo jacket, black leather Baldwin loafers, and matching belt.”

  The specificity of detail reminded her there were times droids came in very handy.

  “When did the rest of the family leave New York?”

  “Two days ago, at eight A.M. The Urban Ride Car Service picked up Ms. McEnroy, the children, and their tutor to take them to the shuttle. From there they traveled to Tahiti, and are in residence at the South Seas Resort and Spa, in beach villa Paradise, for their holiday.”

  Yeah, she thought, very handy. “Has Mr. McEnroy entertained any guests in their absence?”

  “I don’t have that information. I am habitually disengaged when Mr. McEnroy departs, and reengaged when he wishes my assistance.”

  “You’ve got a door cam. I need the feed.”

  “Of course. The security hub is just off the kitchen.”

  “Take it, Peabody. Contact info for Ms. McEnroy.”

  This time, without hesitation, the droid reeled off a number. “What time is it in Tahiti?”

  He blinked. “It is currently twelve-thirty-three A.M. in Tahiti.”

  “That’s just stupid,” Eve muttered.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Me, either. I’m having Crime Scene come up, go through this unit, and EDD will take all electronics in. Are there other droids in residence, or any housekeeping staff, human or otherwise?”