Vendetta in Death

by Robb, J. D.

  “Nope. I chatted up these two blondes from Sweden, and a couple from Tokyo, but no single French ladies, not last night.”

  “He’d occasionally buy a woman a drink, at the bar?”

  “Sure. Now and then. He tips good, so you remember, even though he doesn’t come in like every week. Sometimes weeks and weeks go by, then he shows. But you remember.”

  “And when he’d buy a woman a drink at the bar, did you ever notice a change in her behavior?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Did she appear intoxicated after he bought her a drink, or more inclined to go with him?”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute.” DeCarlo slapped a hand on the table. “You’re trying to say he slipped something into the drink?”

  “I’m not trying to say it, I am saying it.”

  “No. Jesus!” Lace grabbed Gregor’s hand. “No, I never saw him do that. Ever. Win, Jesus!”

  “You don’t look so shocked, Mr. Gregor.”

  Shaking his head at Eve, he blew out a breath. “I never saw it, but … You know, the guy looked good, dressed good, but he wasn’t like a vid star, right? I used to wonder how the hell he scored every single time he came in. He’d pick one out, move in, and later Tee or one of the servers, somebody, would mention maybe how he walked out with another one. I never thought … but now.”

  “You can’t just say something like that about somebody,” DeCarlo objected. “That’s what cops do, they say shit about people.”

  “We have statements from multiple women McEnroy drugged and raped. This was one of his hunting areas.”

  DeCarlo’s angry scowl crumpled. “We’re supposed to watch out for anything like that. We’re supposed to make sure nobody tries to pull any shit with anybody.”

  “He was good at it,” Eve told her. “Kept the dose light here, or whatever club or venue he picked. Just enough.”

  “I didn’t see it,” DeCarlo murmured. “I never figured him for … He had that accent, that way. All charm, you know? I figured him for a player, sure, but not for this. Snow!” She pushed away from the table when the manager came back with Peabody. “She’s saying that son of a bitch roofied women right under my goddamn nose.”

  “What?” He put a long, thin hand on DeCarlo’s shoulder as he shot those laser eyes at Eve. “Do you have evidence of this?”

  “We do, yes, but we’re not saying Ms. DeCarlo or any of your staff was or is complicit. At this time we believe Mr. McEnroy perpetrated these acts alone.”

  “Win, be a friend and get Tee a soother from my office. Sit now.” He eased DeCarlo back into the chair. “This isn’t your fault.”

  “I didn’t see it. I got eyes, goddamn it. I know what to look for. I didn’t see it.”

  “He used the privacy booth,” Eve explained. “He was good at it, and he was careful. He frequented a number of clubs, restaurants, following the same pattern. As far as we know, no one saw it. What they saw, if they noticed, was a woman, maybe a little drunk, leaving of her own volition with a man.”

  “I can look back now, look back knowing, and see it,” DeCarlo muttered. “The son of a fucking bitch.”

  “Me, too.” Mi lifted his shoulders. “When you know, you can see it. And when you know, you can see … last night, it was the other way around.”

  “You mean she slipped him something?” DeCarlo’s scowl came back. “Good for her then. Goddamn it.”

  “The individual who slipped him something followed up by murdering him,” Eve pointed out. “And it’s our job, my partner’s and mine, to find her and see that she faces justice.”

  DeCarlo let out another snort. “There’s why I don’t like cops.”

  When they walked back outside, Eve glanced up at the door cam. “Can we use the feed?”

  “We’ve got her at the door, but she’s not stupid,” Peabody replied. “We don’t get a look, not a good one, of her face. A lot of hair, the killer body. We’re going to be able to peg height and weight, and—I assume—Yancy will have something to work with between the feed and working with the door guy.”

  “Set it up, and get me the best image of her, copy to my units. We’re going to hit a couple more clubs, see if we can shake something, and the restaurant where he dosed Alden.”

  She checked the time. “Then you’re off. If EDD has any more, shoot it to me.”

  Once she cut Peabody loose, Eve hunted up parking near the pub Roarke had chosen. She settled on a second level, jogged down to the street to join the throng of pedestrians on the half-block walk.

  She found the pub had a trio of skinny tables outside—and that Roarke had reserved one. A little cool yet for it, she thought, but the table heater took care of that. As she was early, she ordered black coffee and settled down to review her notes, write fresh ones.

  “Still hard at work.” Roarke slipped in across from her.

  “A lot of leads means a lot to tie together. Why don’t you own This Place?”

  “Happens I do.”

  “No, not this place, the club called This Place.”

  He smiled at her. “Would you like to?”

  “Not especially. It just struck me it’s got some of your style and class. I hit two others you do own—also classy.”

  He smiled at her, but she saw the way he studied her face. “It’s just been a long one,” she said.

  “And more to come. We’ll have a pint and some food.”

  “I’m good with coffee.”

  “Which is what you’ve downed, no doubt, most of the day. A half pint for you, which won’t hurt you a bit. I’ll suggest you follow it with the fish and chips, which is exceptional here.”

  A beer might smooth out some of the edges, she thought. And fish and chips never hurt. “Okay, that’ll work.”

  While he ordered, she put away her notes. And when he simply took her hand, the wall she’d held in place all day crumbled.

  “It was like his hobby, that’s how I see it. I know it was a sickness. Nobody takes so many risks—personally, professionally—needs so much control over women, gains such satisfaction out of using them the way he used them without a sickness. But he treated it like … like a hobby, a serious one. The way some people treat, I don’t know, golf, or crafting, or whatever. I’d bet my ass if he was alive, if I’d caught him, had him in the box, that’s just how it would come out he saw it.”

  “It’s your job, Lieutenant, to know that, understand that, as much as it’s your job to find his killer.” Those eyes, those incredibly blue eyes, looked straight into her. Saw everything. “Empathizing with the women he used doesn’t change any of that.”

  “Empathizing isn’t objectivity.”

  “And bollocks to that. If feeling, relating, understanding isn’t part of the job, well then, why aren’t droids investigating?”

  She frowned over that while the server brought out the beer. “It’s a line though, and some cases make it harder not to tip over on one side or the other.”

  “You have excellent balance.”

  “It pisses me off. He got away with it for years, using his power, his money to use, abuse, and humiliate to get his rocks off. And it pisses me off that someone decided to be judge, jury, and executioner. It pisses me off that some have the mind-set that taking a life is some sort of act of heroism. She—because it’s going to be a woman or women—tortured and killed him and called it justice.”

  However weary she might have been, her eyes went hard, went cop flat. “And it’s not, goddamn it. He’s out of it now, isn’t he? He suffered for a few hours, and now he’s out of it, when real justice would have put him in a cage, taken away that power, that money, his freedom for years.”

  He listened, nodded, sipped his beer. “There was a time, not so long ago, before I met a cop such as you, I’d have tipped on her side of the line.”

  “I know it.” She muttered it, scowled at her own beer.

  “And the fact that I now lean more toward yours can still surprise me, but t
here you have it. And I see, too, because I know my cop, what else is in that heart and mind of yours, and you need to put that part of it away, as you’re nothing like the one you’re hunting.”

  She started to object, then to dissemble, then just shrugged and drank some beer.

  But he knew his cop, his wife, his woman, and pressed.

  “You were a terrorized child who took a life to save her own. You suffered for it more and for longer than you’d ask of another.”

  “I know what it’s like to make that choice.”

  Because the flash of fury that spiked inside him wasn’t what she needed, he smothered it, and spoke in practical tones.

  “And more bollocks to that, as it wasn’t a choice planned or calculated, or even on impulse. It was live or die in the moment. Pity the child you were, Eve, and stand for her as you would for any victim.”

  “I know it was self-defense. I know you’re right.”

  “And if you didn’t still have these moments of inner conflict, you wouldn’t be the cop or the woman you are. I’m madly in love with the woman you are, even though she’s a cop.”

  She started to smile, then sighed. “Shit, shit. Couple walking this way—he’s mid-forties, beige jacket, about five-ten, a hundred and sixty. Tell them to wait here while I get his wallet back.”

  With that, she vaulted over the low wall to the sidewalk, zipped through the throng of pedestrians, and jogged toward the street thief making good time toward the corner.

  She tapped his shoulder. “Bad luck,” she said when his head swiveled toward her. As he shifted to sprint, she simply stuck out her foot, tripped him. He went down in a sprawl, coat flapping.

  “Bad luck,” she repeated, whipped his arms behind his back, slapped on restraints. “It was a pretty decent bump and grab, too.”

  He cried, “Help! Help!” so Eve just rolled her eyes, took out her badge. Pedestrians veed around them like a fork in a river.

  Since he flopped and squirmed—and would likely try to bolt even with the restraints—she just put a boot on his ass, called for uniforms.

  By the time she wound it up, Roarke had the couple seated at the table with Irish coffees. “Lieutenant, this is Mark and Jeannie Horchow from Toledo. They’re in New York to celebrate their fifteenth anniversary.”

  “Okay,” Eve began. “Mr. Horchow—”

  “I never felt a thing! I don’t know how he got my wallet.”

  “He’d consider that his job. I’m afraid you’ll need to go into the Fifteenth Precinct to retrieve your belongings, as he had several other stolen articles in his possession. An officer will transport you, and walk you through the process.”

  “Oh my!” Jeannie, all bubbly blond hair and wide eyes, goggled up at Eve.

  “I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

  “No, no! We wouldn’t have even known, would we, Mark? We were just walking, and … We can’t thank you enough. So kind!”

  She glanced over as the black-and-white pulled to the curb. “We’re going to ride in a police car. Wait until we tell the kids.”

  Mark laughed a little, rose, offered Roarke his hand. “We appreciate it, very much. Thank you, Lieutenant.” He offered his hand to Eve. “We really enjoyed The Icove Agenda. Who knew we’d end up being rescued by Dallas and Roarke?”

  “Wait until we tell the kids,” Jeannie said again.

  Eve waited until she watched them get in the cruiser, then since it was quicker, vaulted over the barricade again. Even as she sat, the server set another half pint in front of her.

  “The other went warm,” Roarke told her. “And you’d barely touched it.”

  “Okay.” She touched it now, drank. Then she smiled. “I feel better.” He smiled right back. “Thought you would.”

  7

  Body fueled, emotions settled, Eve rode up to the McEnroy penthouse with Roarke.

  “And how do you want to handle the widow?” he asked her.

  “I need to get a sense of her, and the tutor. From Peabody’s take the tutor’s going to be looking out for her as much as the kids. She’s been with the family for years. She comes off clean, but unless they’re both idiots, they had to know, at a minimum, Nigel McEnroy cheated routinely.”

  “Some spouses turn a blind eye for any number of reasons.”

  “Some do.” Eve turned her very sharp eye on Roarke. “Me, I’d’ve strapped him naked to the bed, tied his dick in a knot after I’d slathered it with honey for the fire ants I’d have in a jar, which I’d dump out right on his knotted dick.

  “But that’s just me,” she added as the elevator opened.

  “It is very much you.”

  “Then I’d fly off to wherever it is they do the tango, and do that.”

  “Argentina comes to mind.”

  “Okay, there. Blind eyes are for wimps, idiots, or don’t-give-a-damn-anyways.”

  “None of which you are.”

  “You, either.”

  “Agreed. I might take a page from your book on whomever my adored wife might cheat with. Then I’d buy up every coffee bean in the known universe, and burn them, as well as the plants they grow on.”

  “That’s sick,” she said with feeling. “Sick and inhumane.”

  “Ah well, that’s just me.” He took her hand, kissed her knuckles before pressing the buzzer on the McEnroy penthouse.

  “Maybe it’s a weird thing to say after that, but I’m glad we’re us.”

  The McEnroys are unavailable. Please respect the family’s privacy at this difficult time.

  Eve held up her badge after the comp message. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, with civilian consultant Roarke. We have an appointment.”

  One moment.

  She waited for the scan, the verification. In short order the door opened. She recognized Frances Early from her ID shot. Mid-fifties, sturdy and attractive, mixed race. Tired hazel eyes assessed Eve before she stepped back.

  “Lieutenant, sir, Ms. McEnroy is still up with the children. If you’d come in and wait until she’s able to come down.”

  She caught the faint whiff of sweepers’ dust though the living area had been ruthlessly cleaned to remove any other trace of the police.

  “I’ve let Ms. McEnroy know you’re here. The children are understandably distraught, and she’ll stay with them until they fall asleep. May I offer you anything while you wait?”

  “We’re fine. To save time, to ensure we don’t keep either you or Ms. McEnroy any longer than necessary, we can start by talking to you.”

  “To … I see. Of course. Please, sit down. I hope you understand I’m a bit distraught myself.”

  “Understood. You were close, you and Mr. McEnroy?”

  Francie sat, ran a hand over a chin-length cup of deep brown hair. Her nails, Eve noted, glinted with bright pink polish that seemed at odds with her conservative white shirt and black pants.

  “I’ve been with the McEnroys for eight years. I tutor the girls, help tend to them, travel with them and Geena—Ms. McEnroy.”

  “And you were close with Mr. McEnroy?” Eve repeated.

  Francie spread her hands. “We’re family here.”

  Which didn’t answer the question, but told Eve what she wanted to know.

  “Mr. McEnroy stayed in New York while you, his wife, and children went to Tahiti on vacation. Is that usual?”

  “Due to his work, and his business travel, Mr. McEnroy often joined the rest of the family at some point during a holiday. Or traveled alone. I came on as tutor so that the girls—though Breen was a bit young for schooling when I started—could continue their education while traveling. Most usually between New York and London, but we often accompanied Mr. McEnroy on other extended trips.”

  “Or didn’t,” Eve put in. “Meaning Mr. McEnroy was often without his family here in New York, or in London, or Paris, or wherever his work schedule took him.”

  “Of course.” Francie folded her hands with their pretty pink nails, set them on her knee. “It was the nature
of his business. As a result, the girls are excellent travelers. I want to add Mr. McEnroy was devoted to his daughters. He often juggled his very demanding schedule to be with them, or bring them with him for birthdays, Christmas, and so on. He was a loving, involved father.”

  “Was he a loving, involved spouse?”

  Francie shifted, took a moment, then looked straight into Eve’s eyes. “I would prefer you discuss any marital business with Ms. McEnroy.”

  “I’m asking you—and you’ve stated you’re family—your opinion on the nature of the McEnroys’ marriage.”

  “I won’t gossip about my employers, or my family.”

  “This is a murder investigation, not gossip. You were aware McEnroy had numerous and habitual sexual … encounters outside his marriage.”

  Francie’s face went blank, but the knuckles of her folded hands whitened. “You’re pushing me to say ugly things about a man who provided me with family when I had none.”

  “I’m asking you to tell me the truth about a man who was murdered to assist in the investigation. To help find who killed your employer, who robbed a woman you’re clearly fond of of her spouse, and the children in your charge of their father.”

  Tears blurred Francie’s hazel eyes. “Their private life should be private.”

  “It stopped being private when he was tortured and killed by an individual who accused him of multiple rapes.”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “That’s a vicious thing to accuse anyone of, and he’s unable to defend himself from such a vicious thing.”

  “I’ve confirmed the rapes, Ms. Early. Multiple. He kept records.”

  “Oh God, oh my God.” She rose, hands pressed to her face as she walked to the wide window, back again, glanced toward the stairs. “You’re saying to me I’ve worked for, lived with, spent my holidays with a man who …”

  “You knew he cheated. I imagine his wife confided in you even if you didn’t see the signs yourself.”

  “There’s a wide, wide difference. I don’t have to approve of adultery, but can say and mean it’s not my business. It’s between husband and wife, and for them to deal with. Or not. But rape isn’t … They could be lying.”