Vendetta in Death

by Robb, J. D.

  He didn’t like it, curled thin lips, but scanned and verified. “If you insist on keeping your weapons, you’re required to have an escort.”

  “I’ll take them up, Jim.” The female guard stepped out of the security booth, gestured across the lobby to a bank of elevators. “Jim’s a little bit of a jerk,” she said when they were out of earshot. “It’s nothing personal.”

  “Okay.”

  The guard swiped her card at an elevator, then stepped in with Eve and Peabody before holding up a hand at the next person trying to get on. “Sorry, please wait for the next available car.”

  Once the doors shut, she swiped her card again. “Going express,” she explained. “Otherwise it could take twenty minutes to get up to sixty-two this time of day.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “Hey, we’re all just trying to keep people safe, right? Anyway, I know somebody who’s a cop. Well, we just met, really, but she’s a cop in your division, Lieutenant. Dana Shelby.”

  “Officer Shelby’s a good cop.”

  “Maybe you could tell her Londa said hi. Sixty-two,” she announced and stepped off when the doors opened. “Just let me clear this with Universal’s security.”

  She walked to the counter, had a word with one of the people manning it. More people sat in the cushy gray-and-black waiting area busily working their handhelds. Still more breezed in and out of various doors in their power suits.

  The entire area smelled of privilege in the wisps of expensive perfumes and real leather.

  In under a minute, a square-jawed man with a shaved head and a black suit stepped out of a side door, gave Eve and Peabody a quick glance before walking to Londa.

  “Got it from here. Appreciate it, Londa.”

  “No prob, Nick.” Londa sent Eve and Peabody a little salute before she headed back to the elevator and the guard crossed to them.

  “Nick Forret, head of security for Universal. How can I help you?”

  “We need to speak with Leah Lester.”

  With a nod, he turned to the counter. “Is Ms. Lester in her office?”

  “I’ll check, Mr. Forret. Yes, sir. Her office ’link is engaged, with a do not disturb.”

  “Then don’t disturb her,” Forret said mildly. He gestured to another door. “I’ll take you back to Ms. Lester’s office. Do you expect any difficulties, Lieutenant?”

  “No. Ms. Lester may have information that could assist us in an investigation.”

  They didn’t go far, though Eve noted Lester had moved up beyond cube status to the next level. Her office door was shut with the red DND light blinking. Ignoring it, Forret issued one sharp knock, opened it.

  The woman at the desk jabbed a finger in the air out of range of the ’link even as she continued a conversation in the calmest of tones. “Absolutely, Mr. Henry, that is fully understood. I’d be more than happy to discuss all of this with you tomorrow, as planned.”

  Eve let the conversation roll as she looked around the office. Smaller than hers at Central, but it did have a bigger window. No frills, no fuss—she respected that.

  “I look forward to meeting you, sir, and very much appreciate the chance to show you what we can offer you as a member of the Universal Financial family.”

  The minute she signed off, her polite, professional expression went to snarl. “Damn it! Did you see the DND? I’ve been working on getting this face-to-face with Abner Henry for weeks.”

  “Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody.” And with that Forret stepped out, shut the door.

  To add to it, Eve held up her badge. “NYPSD, Ms. Lester. We need a few minutes of your time.”

  “Cops?” The irritation shifted to puzzlement, then jumped straight to panic as she surged up. “My parents? My brother? What—”

  “It has nothing to do with your family.”

  “Frankie.” Now she pressed a hand to her heart, sank into the chair again. “Oh God.”

  “Or Frankie,” Eve added. “We’re here about Nigel McEnroy.”

  Color flew back in her face—a good face, Eve noted, more than pretty, with refined features, lips carefully dyed a quiet coral. Her eyes changed, too, the clear, pale blue of them going glacier cold.

  “I’ve got nothing to do with McEnroy or his company, and nothing to say, either. I left his company’s employ more than a year ago. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

  “Nigel McEnroy is dead.”

  Something flickered in those eyes, then she sat back, blew out a breath, lifted a hand to skim it through her carefully styled mane of gold-streaked red hair. “Dead? As in …God. How do I feel?” she murmured. “I don’t know how I feel. Not sorry,” she decided. “It’s not a crime to not be sorry.”

  Hit the core straight off, Eve decided. “Can you give us your whereabouts from nine P.M. last night until four this morning?”

  “Why …Jesus, was he murdered? He was murdered, and you’re looking at me.” She shut her eyes a moment, then picked up a little red ball from her desk, started squeezing it. “Things follow you no matter what you do. Someone killed him, that’s what followed him. And that follows me.”

  “Your whereabouts?”

  “I …I was with Frankie from about eight until about midnight. We just started dating. We met for dinner at Roscoe’s, then we caught some music at the Blue Note. He walked me home—that’s his thing, he always takes me home—and I got in about midnight. I went to bed—alone. That’s my thing, but I’m about to try to change that. I left for work this morning about eight.”

  She put the ball down, rose, turned to her window. “He’s dead, and I’m not sorry. He was a terrible excuse for a human being. You must know that, or know why I think that, or you wouldn’t be here. I should be scared, I guess. Should I be scared that you’re here?” She turned back. “I’m not. I’m just pissed off that this brings it all back when I’ve managed to push it out.”

  She sat again. “I guess you’ve talked to Sylvia. To Ms. Brant.”

  “We’re aware of Mr. McEnroy’s alleged behavior with you and other female employees.”

  “Alleged.” For an instant her eyes went dead. Then they fired with icy rage. “Of course alleged. We took the money and walked away, Jasmine and I. So it’ll always be alleged. And even if we hadn’t? How can you prove what you don’t clearly remember?”

  Eve understood that all too well, and the helplessness that came with it. But pushed it aside to do the job. “You told Ms. Brant that Mr. McEnroy sexually assaulted and harassed you.”

  “Raped me. I know it. I know it, but I can’t prove it. Sylvia believed me—us—me and Jasmine, and she made it stop. We took the money. You can call it a payoff, or compensation, or a bribe, I don’t give a shit. What it was? Something to help us get through until we could find our feet again, sleep at night again, get another decent job. It was making him pay.”

  Eve didn’t mind the angry venting. The anger told her a great deal.

  “Are you in touch with Ms. Quirk?”

  “She moved to Chicago. She couldn’t stay here, and she has family there. We keep in touch, not as much as we did. We went to the same support group for a while. She convinced me to go. Maybe it helped. Misery loves company.

  “I walked away,” she said again, and sat. “Even knowing the money it cost him meant nothing to him.”

  “Did Ms. Brant urge you to take the money and walk?”

  “No. She was willing to go to the wall. We weren’t.”

  “Why?”

  “He had vids. We didn’t tell Sylvia—we just … We weren’t ready to talk about that part. He had vids, of both of us—not together,” she said quickly. “Jasmine told me about hers after I told her about mine.”

  Peabody spoke, soft, gentle. “Can you talk about it now?”

  “Yeah. I got through that wall. I woke up that night in his house, in his bed. I don’t remember how I got there. I don’t really remember any of it. But I knew I’d never have gone with him like that. I’d already made that clea
r, even told him I’d report him. Then I’m naked in his bed? When I woke up, sick, confused, humiliated, he already had the vid cued up. And there I was, in that room, having sex with him.”

  She had to look away—not to fight tears, Eve noted. To pull back the rage.

  “I didn’t just look willing, but eager. He told me if I tried to say I hadn’t been willing and eager, he’d ruin me. He had the lawyers, the money, the vid. I’d never get a decent job in the field again—anywhere. Then he told me to get dressed and get out. His wife was coming home that afternoon.

  “Tell me I should’ve gone to the police,” she snapped even as, at last, her eyes filled. “When he had that vid.”

  “Ms. Lester.” Peabody spoke in what Eve thought of as her heart voice. “We’re not here to tell you what you should’ve done. He had all the power, and not just in that moment.”

  “He broke me, and I did nothing.”

  “That’s not true,” Peabody corrected. “You went to your supervisor.”

  “Not right away. I thought I could just bury it, you know, pretend it didn’t happen. Especially when he went back to London, and I didn’t have to see him. But I walked into the bathroom, and Jasmine was in there. She was sick. I didn’t even know her very well, but she was sick, so I said something about could I get her some water, or help her get home or whatever. She just blurted it all out. She said she had to quit, had to leave, she’d had sex with McEnroy and couldn’t even remember. And she’s puking and blaming herself, and I realized he’d done the same thing to her somehow. I told her, and I guess I used her, because she was so sick and shaky she let me take over. That’s when we went to Sylvia.”

  “It seems to me you helped each other. That’s not using. It’s supporting.”

  “Maybe. What I know is I’ve tried to put it behind me, and I was getting there. Now the bastard’s dead and I’m a suspect. I should probably get a lawyer.”

  “Do you want a lawyer?” Eve asked her.

  She sent Eve a look of unbearable weariness. “Then I’d have to go through all of it again, tell someone else.”

  “We’re going to need Frankie’s full name and contact info. We need to verify your statement on your whereabouts last night. We can tell him we’re simply checking off boxes on some routine matter.”

  “He knows about McEnroy. I haven’t felt ready to have sex—and boy, I used to like sex—since that morning. I wanted to have sex with Frankie, but … not ready. So I told him why. He’s waited. He’s Frank Carvindito. He’s an editor for Vanguard Publishing. And he’s pretty goddamn terrific.”

  “Okay. Can you tell us the last thing you remember before you woke up in McEnroy’s bedroom?”

  “Oh yeah. I’ve been over it a million times. He called me into his office, and the son of a bitch apologized. He said he realized he’d been inappropriate, that he’d misread signals, how I was already a valued member of the team. He laid it on, and I accepted it. I loved the work there, so I accepted it. And the coffee he offered me when he started to talk about work. I have a vague memory of walking out with him. I think most everyone was gone by then. I remember feeling off, like I’d been drinking, but good drinking, you know? Loose. Then I was in the back of a car with him, and his hands were on me, but I didn’t mind. He gave me a drink, and then … nothing. I just don’t remember after that. Some flashes—like dream blips—but nothing clear.”

  “All right.” Eve got to her feet. “We appreciate your time and cooperation.”

  “That’s it?”

  “For now it is. We’ll verify what you’ve told us. As long as it jibes, as long as you didn’t kill him, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  Her lips twisted into a mockery of a smile. “Well, there’s good news.”

  Eve paused, waited until Leah’s eyes met hers. “I’m a cop, and I’m telling you this. What he did to you was rape. He drugged you, raped you, then blackmailed you. He’s to blame, every level, every step.

  You’re not. And you stood up when you realized he’d done the same to someone else.”

  “I …” She had to stop, had to swallow. “Thanks. I mean it. Now, you’re going to go around all this with Jasmine, even though she’s in Chicago. Take it easy with her, will you? She’s always going to be a little tender because a part of her is always going to at least half believe she caused it. And to add insult, he passed her over for a promotion right after. Just another little sting, right?”

  “We’ll keep that in mind.” Eve walked to the door, stopped. “Are you still in the support group?”

  “Me? Not really. Once Frankie and I got serious—once I realized I actually could have good feelings for a man—I sort of let it slide. Jasmine’s got one in Chicago. I think she’s a lifer.”

  “Does it have a name? The group?”

  “Women For Women. I thought it would be as stupid as it sounds, but it actually helped. I might just hit the next meeting.” She smiled a little. “Just a quick booster maybe.”

  They left her staring into space and squeezing the red ball.

  “She struck me as telling it straight,” Peabody said as they rode down.

  “Yeah, but we verify. I’m going to dump you at Central on my way to the morgue.”

  “I love when that happens.”

  “You verify Lester’s statement with the boyfriend. You contact Jasmine Quirk, run her through it, verify her statement. Set up a meet with the vic’s spouse, get any updates from EDD on the electronics. Write up the report, copy to me, Whitney, Mira. Get what we need for a search and seize on all the vic’s residences and offices.”

  “Worldwide.”

  “That’s affirmative. See what you can find on this support group.”

  “The support group?”

  “Remember Mr. Mira’s cousin? A conspiracy of female vics turned revenge killers. It’s not impossible we have something similar here, so let’s take a look at the group. Contact the vic’s transpo service, a driver, from Po’s files. No way he risked a cab getting Lester from the office to his residence, so if he headed out to a club last night to hunt, he probably didn’t take public transpo.”

  “I’m starting to think the morgue and a dead, mutilated body’s easier.”

  “Make lieutenant, then you can call the shots.” Eve whipped to the corner. “Out.”

  “At least this way I can grab a street dog before I go in.” Peabody climbed out, beelined for the cart as Eve bullied her way back into traffic.

  She ran through questions in her head along the drive.

  Could one person, working alone, have lured McEnroy, incapacitated him, transported him to an as yet unknown location, tortured, mutilated, and killed him, then transported the body back to the dump site?

  Not impossible, but it seemed more likely a partnership of some sort.

  Alternately, had McEnroy left his residence to go to that as yet unknown location voluntarily, most probably expecting sex? And there the killer incapacitated him, and the rest, before transporting the body to the dump site? If so, a stronger case for working alone, but still …

  Even as she walked down the white tunnel of the morgue, she ran other scenarios. The one point that stuck in any and all: The murder, the method, the victim had all been meticulously planned.

  When she swung through the double doors of the chief medical examiner’s theater, she found Morris sitting on a stool at one of his counters, munching on soy chips as he studied a comp screen.

  He still wore the clear protective cape over a stylish suit of steely blue with a sharp-collared shirt of the same exact tone. He’d chosen a tie the color of warm apricots, twined his long black braid with a cord to mirror it.

  He swiveled on the stool, smiled. “A fine day it is for the living. Where’s our Peabody?”

  “Central. Verifying and so on.” She walked to the steel slab where McEnroy still lay spread open by Morris’s Y-cut. “Bad end for him.”

  “Bad, long, painful.”

  “Did you get tox back
yet?”

  “Just now.” Rising, Morris walked first to his cold box, took out a couple tubes of Pepsi. He tossed one to Eve, cracked his own.

  “Thanks.”

  “We’re here to serve. The unfortunate Mr. McEnroy had traces of Rohypnol mixed with a very dry martini. More traces of a drug, street name Black Out. Both of those chemicals, or the results of them, would have worn off before the torture began.”

  “Roofied him—that’s the lure—then knocked him out in order to get him where he/she/they wanted him. The roofie? The killer would consider that justice. It was one of his favored tools in what’s looking like serial rape.”

  “Ah, so a bad end for a bad man. From the ligature marks on his wrists—you see here?”

  “Yeah, clear enough.”

  “He was hung by the wrists, arms above the head, as you deduced on-site. His weight caused the restraints to dig into his flesh, and also put considerable strain on his rotator cuffs, arms, shoulders. There are, as you also noted, no defensive wounds. He would have been incapable of attempting to defend himself. The facial injuries, some from a weighted sap, some from an electric prod. Much the same with the torso, the back, the legs. Some wounds, the prod straight on, like a jab, others a lash, like a whip. All would have been excruciating. The prod had to be on high voltage to cause burns this severe.”

  As a matter of routine, Morris picked up two pairs of microgoggles. “The torture, given the extent of the wounds, went on for between three and four hours. He would have lost consciousness off and on. There were traces of Alert on and in his nostrils.”

  “No fun torturing an unconscious man.”

  “No indeed. He was still alive when his genitals were—quite efficiently—severed with a sharp blade.”

  “Medical training? A scalpel?”

  “Medical training’s possible, or someone who spent some time practicing. A sure hand, in any case. But the blade used wouldn’t have been a scalpel. You’re more likely to be looking for a knife with a slight rise in the center of the blade. See here.”

  He put on the goggles, leaned over the body, so Eve did the same.